


Falling In, Not Through

by Julibean19



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Greek Mythology, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Body Horror, Claudia Stilinski's Background, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mates, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-08 05:38:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11640030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julibean19/pseuds/Julibean19
Summary: “You need to help me,” Stiles says eventually.  He’s still in too much pain to move off the floor, but he’s picked up a stray feather, twirling it between two fingers with a look of pure terror on his face.  Peter nods immediately, eager and willing to be involved in whatever this is.Peter’s eyes flick between the feather spinning between Stiles’ fingers and the harsh angle of the bend of his wings above his shoulders.  He doesn’t look like any picture of an angel Peter has ever seen.  There should be an elegant swooping curve there, neat little rows of white or gold or silver, pointed tips flung far out from Stiles’ body and a halo above his head.  If Stiles is an angel, the myths are all wrong.In which Stiles finds that he has wings and Peter finds that a pack doesn't always need to be made up of wolves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mysenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysenia/gifts).



> Special thanks to everyone on the Steter Network for their help and encouragement, especially Mal for organizing everything and letting me rant about present tense, Femmme for editing for me, and Sfle for telling me everything she knows about birds and broken feathers.
> 
> Beta read by my trusty CaptainVonChan.
> 
> This is my first try at present tense, so please forgive me. I will probably revert to past after this. I don't think present was for me.

Peter is done with Stiles.  And Derek.  And Saint Scott for that matter.  Really all of them, the whole pack has been party to this atrocity.  Who in their right mind would think it was a good idea to leave Stiles and Peter together at the loft?  Didn’t they know Peter was a murderer several times over?  Most of them had even seen him kill firsthand.  Surely it isn’t so easy to forget the way his claws had slit Kate Argent’s throat… and yet, here they are, alone again, glaring at each other.  
  
“Will you stop pacing for one second?” Peter asks, peering at Stiles out of the corner of his eye while reclined across Derek’s couch.  “You’re starting to smell.”  His nose twitches a fraction of an inch as he tries to place the scent.  It’s not the normal teenage boy smell, that rank combination of sweat and dried come.  It’s something odd that’s been slowly creeping up on the boy over the last few weeks.  Peter hasn’t been able to name it yet, but it’s begun to rankle him.  He knows it’s something familiar, but for the life of him, he can’t remember what.  
  
“I am not,” Stiles snaps from across the room where he’s been pacing for the better part of the last hour.  Peter doesn’t miss the slight tilt to his head and inhale of breath while he checks his armpit.  
  
“You have been smelling for weeks actually, but that’s neither here nor there.  What’s bothering me more is the constant movement and the heartbeat,” Peter says, closing his eyes once more to show how bored with the conversation he already is.  “It’s like a rabbit, and I’m used to eating rabbits, not babysitting them.”  
  
“You are not babysitting me!   _I’m_ babysitting _you_!” Stiles exclaims, arms flailing a bit as he spins on his heels to face Peter.  “Someone has to make sure you’re not out terrorizing the good people of Beacon Hills!”  
  
“Isn’t that your father’s job?” Peter says mildly, tapping his pointer fingers against his breastbone where his hands are clasped over his chest.  “Protecting the good people from ‘terror,’ as you so delightfully called me.”  
  
“He’s in charge of the natural terror, not the supernatural terror,” Stiles clarifies, narrowing his eyes in frustration.  “You’re not going anywhere near him.”  
  
“And who would stop me?  You?” Peter asks, lunging upward off the couch in a move that probably requires more abdominal strength than Stiles will ever have.  “You’re an infant.”  
  
“I’m 18!  I’m a fucking legal adult,” Stiles says, eyes widening slightly when Peter puts a foot up on the coffee table and leaps over it, crowding into his space.    
  
Peter’s nostrils flare and a disgusted sneer passes across his face.  He can see how Stiles stands a little taller, squares his shoulders like he’s readying himself for a fight.  Peter can’t help but chuckle at the boy’s poor excuse for intimidation.  “You’re a child, and I’m your keeper.  This is a punishment, not a playdate.”    
  
“Well I didn’t see any Legos when I walked in, so yeah, I wouldn’t call this a playdate,” Stiles says, stepping forward until he’s almost flush against Peter’s chest.  “And I’m pretty sure I’m the one being punished here, not you.”  
  
The boy meets his eyes, so Peter has to mentally acknowledge the courage.  Or is it stupidity?  It’s so difficult to tell with teenagers.  Grudgingly, Peter inhales and realizes that there isn’t a hint of fear on Stiles’ scent, just that same dank, dirty smell that’s been growing stronger by the day.  “It’s punishment enough being in your presence when you smell like that.  Why don’t you run home and take a shower?  I’ll wait.”  
  
“Why don’t you make me?” Stiles challenges, raising his chin ever so slightly until the difference in their heights becomes apparent.  He smirks slightly, eyes flickering with growing amusement.  
  
Peter is not amused.  It’s bad enough that he’s the old man in this pack, but now he’s also the short one?  Who knew Stiles was going to have a growth spurt in his senior year and shoot up an extra three inches.  At least he can still tower over McCall.  Thank God for small mercies.  
  
Having lost himself in thought for a moment, Peter finds that he hasn’t replied to Stiles’ taunt.  It’s beneath him, but something about the freckled idiot makes Peter want to push back and assert dominance.  He’s not going to let himself be bossed around by someone who can’t even rent himself a car when his piece of crap Jeep breaks down.  
  
Rolling his neck on his shoulders—a move Derek thinks he’s invented but is actually something he picked up from his dear old uncle—Peter flashes his eyes and growls, low and loud into Stiles’ face.  He can see the moment Stiles’ chest starts to rattle with it, that unpleasant churning you feel in your gut when the bass is cranked way too high on someone’s stereo.  Peter is more than familiar with it, having spent most of his youth as the troublemaker of his family who usually faced the fiercest parental punishments.  Annoyingly enough, Stiles doesn’t blink.  Sure, Peter can see that the human is affected, but not enough to make him back down.  Peter inhales deeply, ready to roar right in Stiles’ ear if necessary when he freezes.  
  
It’s so obvious to him now, what the scent is.  He completely ignores Stiles’ affronted retort, “That all you got, Zombie Wolf?” in favor of inhaling again, double checking.  
  
Stiles smells like death.  Not the charred flesh smell that he associates with his family and his own death by Derek’s inexperienced hand—because let’s face it, it was Stiles’ throw and Argent’s bullet that resulted in the fire that really brought him down—no it’s something different.  This is the scent that followed him into the ground, the one that he reeked of when Lydia brought him back.  This is the smell of decomposition.  
  
“You’re dying,” Peter says, apropos of nothing as far as Stiles is concerned.  He can see the boy’s eyes widen in disbelief, then narrow with skepticism.  
  
“I’m not dying,” Stiles protests easily, scratching at his lower back with one hand.  “I feel fine.”  
  
“Do you though?” Peter asks, not out of concern so much as morbid curiosity.  “Because you smell like your flesh is rotting as we stand here.”  
  
“That’s not possible,” Stiles argues, mouth twisting into a crude approximation of exasperation.  “My flesh is just fine, thanks for asking.”  
  
Peter opens his mouth to explain, because even Stiles can’t argue that he has experience with this sort of thing,—seeing as he had been driving around his dead nurse’s corpse when they first met—but he’s interrupted by his phone ringing.  
  
“What can I do for you, Alpha mine?” Peter answers, rolling his eyes in Stiles’ direction.  It’s been clear to him for some time that Derek feels threatened by his presence in the pack, so he takes great joy in rebuffing his nephew’s authority whenever possible.

If he’s going to be made to keep company with teenagers, he’s sure as hell going to act like one himself.  Let Derek learn how to wrangle the messy angst on his own; Peter will enjoy fueling the fire until such time as his nephew comes crawling, begging for his guidance.  He knows it’s going to take something big for Derek to swallow his pride like that, but Peter’s a patient man.  He’s willing to play the long game if he has to.  
  
“What’s going on?” Stiles asks immediately, forever lamenting the fact that he can’t hear the other end of phone calls the way most of his peers can.  “Is anyone hurt?”  
  
Peter stops just short of rolling his eyes again.  It’s unbecoming of someone his age, but sometimes it just can’t be helped.  It’s not his fault everyone he speaks to requires hourly sarcasm spankings.  
  
“Put it on speakerphone!” Stiles demands in an angry hiss.  It makes Peter want to strangle him.  All that blind loyalty and compassion is disgusting.  Desperate to get Stiles’ overpowering scent out of his personal space, Peter acquiesces.  
  
“Any idea what would cause a wendigo to do a… I don’t know… dance?  A ritualistic dance?  Lydia thinks it looks purposeful, like it’s got some sort of intention.”  
  
“Maybe it’s trying to bring in a bountiful harvest of flesh to eat, “ Peter suggests, sounding bored with the proceedings.  
  
“Not this time of year,” Stiles counters, face set in stern concentration as he runs to Peter’s laptop and starts typing.  
  
“It could be a mating dance,” Peter muses, wanting nothing more than to fuck with Derek at that very moment.  “Have you tried joining in?  It might need a group to get the thing going, you know, like the electric slide.  You can’t have a good electric slide with just one wendigo.”  
  
Derek ponders that for a minute as Stiles snorts, clearly aware of the fact that Peter is just fucking around.  Stiles is determined to find the answer though, clacking away steadily on Peter’s MacBook.  
  
“Easy with the computer, it’s not childproof,” Peter scolds, not entirely convinced that his touchpad is going to come out of this encounter in one piece.  
  
“Got it,” Stiles crows triumphantly.  “It’s for the weather!”  
  
“What?” Derek’s voice calls through the phone.  “What about the weather?”  
  
“Well, wendigos like it cold and we’re having a heat wave so…” he trails off when he catches the blank look on Peter’s face.  “What?  It’s obvious!”  
  
“The wind _is_ getting chilly,” Derek adds while others mutter softly in the background.  
  
“If it doesn’t start magically snowing soon, just go up in the mountains where it’s chilly and wait for it to show up.  It’s not rocket science, Derek.”  
  
Peter is begrudgingly impressed.  It almost makes him mad that Stiles was the one to find the answer, not that Peter had been offering serious suggestions.  Something in him wishes that he had now, so he could have had the satisfaction of beating the boy in a race of wits.  However, seeing as Stiles is being marginalized the same as Peter is, he decides to turn that frustration toward Derek.  
  
“Fine, we’ll handle it,” Derek says gruffly.  
  
“You’re very welcome, nephew,” he says brusque and businesslike into the phone.  “I think Stiles and I are going to take a break from being your technical support next time around though.  Clearly, we aren’t being properly appreciated,” he adds, catching Stiles’ eye.  “So we’re done being your B-team.  If you find yourself in a pickle, call your other werewolf uncle.  The boy genius and I are calling it a night.”  
  
Peter wishes he still had a flip phone.  Hanging up on someone isn’t nearly as satisfying without the snapping noise.  
  
“You think I’m a genius?” Stiles asks, smirking slyly.  Peter isn’t falling for it though; he can see the hint of genuine pleasure and validation behind the boy’s ridiculously full eyelashes.  It’s sad really, how little it takes to get that reaction, as if Peter is the only one to have praised him in years.  The kid must be starving for it.  
  
“I think you should know your worth,” Peter says quickly, not willing to confirm his previous statement.  “You may be human, but you’re not without your strengths.  Don’t let useless wolves walk all over you.  They could stand to be put in their place occasionally.  It will probably save their lives at some point.  Young wolves are notoriously reckless.”  
  
Stiles stares at him for a second, and Peter realizes he’s probably said too much, been too complimentary, perhaps even shown that he cares in some capacity.  But what’s done is done and he doesn’t need to take back a semantically true statement.  Instead, he adds, “Only an idiot does the grunt work when they could be running the operation.  And you are many infuriating things, but you’re not an idiot.”  
  
Stiles looks at him with an expression Peter honestly can’t place; but there’s no way in hell he’s going to ask what the boy is thinking.  He’s done more than enough counseling work tonight.  Their phones chime simultaneously with a text in the pack group chat signaling the all clear.  “The threat has been neutralized.  You’re free to go,” Peter says, gesturing toward the door.  
  
Nodding curtly with something of a military air, Stiles takes his leave.  Peter inhales and notices that the scent of death is lingering.  It’s baffling to him that none of the other wolves have noticed anything yet.  It’s still unclear to Peter what’s wrong with the pack human, but as long as the smell dissipates from his clothes by the time he gets back to his apartment, he supposes he doesn’t care.

 

* * *

 

Stiles takes the long way home with his windows cranked down.  He can’t be completely certain that Peter is telling the truth about his scent, but just in case he is, Stiles wants to air out his car and his flannel shirt before he gets home.    
  
For the first time in recent memory, his dad is home before midnight.  He’s lounging lengthways across the couch, propped up on one arm with a beer in his hand and a baseball game on low.  It’s a small comfort that it’s a Coors Light and not bourbon, so Stiles decides to forego the typical lecture.  If truth be told, he’s just too tired to bother.  He didn’t feel it until now, too wound up with anxiety and the thrill of the chase to realize that fatigue had set in hard.  
  
“Hey kid,” the sheriff says, “you have a good time with Scott?”  
  
Stiles smiles wanly, wishing he could name the last time he had actually been hanging out with his best friend when he’d said so.  More often than not it was him and Peter, at each other’s throats while the rest of the pack was out saving the day.  Regardless, it’s obvious that his dad doesn’t really believe that’s where he’s been either.  The question is just a habit at this point.  Checking in with each other is a pointless obligation, an opportunity to lie to each other.  
  
“Yeah, played some Xbox,” he says easily, far too easily.  
  
“You eat dinner?” the sheriff asks, eyes flicking away from the screen for a minute to look at his son.  “Are you feeling alright?” he asks, sitting up straight and giving Stiles a look of concern.  “You’re white as a sheet.”  
  
“I’m fine, Dad,” Stiles replies, rolling his shoulders like his skin is suddenly on too tight.  “Just a little tired.  Stayed up too late last night.”  
  
“Just because it’s summer doesn’t mean you don’t need to sleep.  You’ve been looking gray for the last week.  Maybe you should stay in tomorrow night and get some shut-eye, okay?” he says.  It’s an order more than a suggestion, even if that’s not the way it was worded.  After ten years of living alone with his father, he’s learned to tell the difference.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says with a huff and a scratch to the back of his neck.  
  
“Stanford is going to kick your ass in a few months if you sleep through all of your classes.”  
  
“Yeah, I know Dad.  I’ll be fine, just fell into a Wikipedia spiral about coniferous trees,” Stiles says rubbing at his arms over his flannel.  “You know me.”  
  
“I think maybe you should go get checked out at the doctor this week,” John says, tilting his head to the side as if he’s going to be able to diagnose his son better from a different angle.  “You might have mono or something.  Have you had a fever?”  
  
“No fever,” Stiles tells him quickly, not wanting his father to worry unnecessarily.  “It’s not mono.”   _Just the stench of death_ , he adds mentally.  “Maybe just another growth spurt or something.  My back is sore and I’m tired, that’s all.”  
  
“I can’t believe you’re this tall already,” John huffs, shaking his head and then taking a large gulp of beer.    
  
“Your mom’s dad was 6’6” though, so maybe it’s just a Mieczyslaw thing.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles agrees with a small smile, eyeing the three empty cans on the coffee table.  If his mom comes up in conversation, it’s usually a good sign that his dad is well on his way to intoxicated.    
  
“I’m going to get to bed.”  
  
“Okay kid,” John says, getting up from the couch to give Stiles a hug.  Stiles winces slightly at the pressure against his back, and his dad is frowning when they pull apart.  “I’m making you an appointment with the doctor.  I’ll text you with the time, okay?  Humor your father?”  
  
“Fine, I’ll go,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes with a certain sort of fondness.  “You get some sleep too, okay?  You have a double shift tomorrow, right?”  
  
“Yeah, and I picked up one for Davies after that,” John adds, rubbing at his forehead as he flops back on the couch.  “He has to go back home to Memphis for a funeral.”  
  
“Get some sleep then,” Stiles says, collecting the empty cans without looking at his father.  He knows the gesture alone is enough to make his father second guess getting up for another round.  Watching you kid literally pick up your mess can be a powerful buzzkill, and Stiles isn’t above doing it when he thinks it’s necessary.  “I’ll stay at the McCalls’ until you’re home again,” he adds, figuring it’s easier to lie in advance these days.  
  
“Love you, son,” John says, eyes crinkling around the edges.  Stiles smiles back, but it feels a little hollow.  The wrinkles on his father’s face are deeper than they used to be, and he can’t help but think about how much longer he can keep up this level of work before his body gives out on him.  
  
“Love you too, Dad,” he says and trudges up the stairs.  He’s moving slow, he knows it, but there’s something about hearing someone tell you that you smell like rotting flesh that really brings your mood down.  
  
With much effort, Stiles makes it to his room and starts to strip for bed.  He unbuttons his flannel and pulls it off, grimacing when he looks down at his forearm.  The skin is so dry it looks like it’s peeling back at the edges.  He had noticed his skin was unusually dry a few days ago, but he just made a mental note to replenish his jerkoff lotion supply and let it slip his mind.  He hadn’t expected it to get this bad this quickly.  Pulling at the neck of his tee shirt, Stiles groans when he pulls it over his head.  The scrape of the fabric feels like sandpaper against the skin on his back, and he heads to the bathroom to check the mirror.  
  
The entirety of his back is red and itching.  It feels hot to the touch when he reaches over his shoulder to test it.  What is that?  An infection?  Maybe Peter hadn’t been too far off.  How many steps was it from itchy skin to death?  Six?  Seven?  Surely he had some time here.  You didn’t die from dry skin.  Even so, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from flicking to his mother every few seconds.  But she had gotten sick slowly, so slowly it had been torture for all of them.  It hadn’t crept up on her without any of them noticing anything.  He isn’t sick.  He doesn’t have frontotemporal dementia.  Cancer doesn’t start with dry skin either.  Unless it’s skin cancer.  Maybe it’s skin cancer.  
  
He turns around to get a look at the whites of his eyes, they’re the same shade of white as always, so no liver failure.  He checks his testicles regularly, so there’s no worry there.  Letting out a heavy breath, Stiles takes a better look at himself.  He’s pale.  Too pale.  Even his moles look a few shades whiter than usual.    
  
Suddenly, he’s exhausted.  He tells himself that he’ll just take the doctor’s appointment his dad makes him.  There’s nothing more that he can do tonight.  No matter what it is, Stiles is going to need to be well rested to fight it off.  It’s just worrisome that this time he’ll be fighting an enemy he can’t see.  What good are claws and baseball bats against cancer?   _No good at all_ , he thinks as he collapses into his bed and falls promptly to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Another day, another demon.  Peter is used to it.  After all, he grew up in Beacon Hills.  The supernatural activity level has always been high, but he’s pretty sure two demons in one week is a bit more than usual.  He hates that the frequency is becoming worrisome to him.  Maybe he should be tracking the number of the attacks and their type.  But that would be too much effort, and it’s likely that Stiles already has it covered.  The kid probably has scatter charts and trends plotted.  
  
“That’s what, four incidents this month?” Peter asks with as casual an air as possible.  He doesn’t care, not really.  It’s only morbid curiosity at this point.  That and he supposes the more frequently the pack is out fighting evil, the more frequently he is going to be subjected to Stiles’ death stench.  
  
“Five,” Stiles answers easily, tapping away on Peter’s laptop again.  “You’re forgetting the nymph.  That was on the first.”  
  
“Of course,” Peter replies, mouth twitching with amusement at Stiles’ quick answer.  “What do you have over there?  A scatter plot?  Also, why aren’t you using your laptop?”  
  
“Mine is heavy and everything’s backed up in the cloud anyway, so it’s just as easy to do here,” Stiles says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
“Of course,” Peter is smiling a bit more now, though he’s not sure why.  
  
“And it’s a Gantt chart actually… and a color-coded map of town.  Each color is a different species and the symbols indicate the time of day and who was injured, if anyone.  There’s a key in a separate document.”  
  
“Clever,” Peter says, and it’s true.  The method is a little unorthodox, but it covers all the necessary data.  
  
“I know,” Stiles says, raising his eyebrows dramatically.  
  
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Peter snaps, but there’s no heat behind it.  “You still smell.”  
Peter expects Stiles to protest, but he doesn’t.  It’s more upsetting than Peter would like to admit, the way Stiles’ face falls at his words.  
  
“You told me to know my worth,” Stiles says after a long moment, “and I’m trying.  That’s all.”  
  
“Good,” Peter says simply, feeling uneasy when the room falls quiet again.  Why is he doing this?  Why does he even care?  It’s just that the air feels stagnant, the putrid scent growing by the minute, and Peter feels like he needs to do something more than just stew in it.  
  
Every time Stiles fidgets or scratches at his back, the scent wafts toward him, dank and rancid.  Peter almost wants to ask if Stiles is feeling alright, but that seems wrong, like it’s crossing some line that he’s drawn between himself and the rest of the pack.  He doesn’t care what happens to the idiot teenagers; he’s only in the pack to contradict Derek and bear witness as the world comes crashing down every time his nephew makes a poor decision.  It’s morbid curiosity more than anything.  Peter knows that he will be the Alpha of Beacon Hills eventually, he’s just waiting for his moment.  There’s no better place to strike from than the middle.  
  
Peter is almost relieved when his phone rings, even though he knows it’s Derek asking for advice again.  
  
“Just answer it,” Stiles snaps, apparently more on edge than Peter had realized.  “You know he’s just going to keep calling.  He’ll probably get someone killed without us.”  
  
“And that’s my problem because?” Peter asks, cocking his head to the side.  
  
“Just answer the damn phone, you psychopath!” Stiles shouts, lunging forward, pulling it out of Peter’s hand before he has the chance to tighten his grip.  “Hello?” Stiles calls out, a little desperate.  “Derek?”

  
Peter lets out a heavy, exasperated breath and flops down on the sofa.  He does his best to tune out Derek’s gruff voice, demanding information from the one useful kid in his pack, who he benched like a fucking moron.    
  
As loathe as he is to admit it, it couldn’t be more clear that Stiles is the pack’s best asset.  The puppies only know how to posture and growl, just enough to get themselves killed by a damn pixie because they don’t know their history.  Talia would never have stood for this kind of ignorance in her pack.  Peter wonders if telling Derek that would make any difference.  He decides that he doesn’t care.  He'll just let the pups fall one by one until it’s just him left.  
  
By the time Stiles hangs up the phone, Peter has already talked himself back into apathy.  “You are the biggest dick I have ever met,” Stiles says heavily, wincing as he rolls his shoulders.  
  
“You bet I am, Princess,” Peter says, turning to the side so he can prop his head up on his elbow and look at Stiles.  
  
“Don’t fucking flatter yourself,” Stiles snaps, puffing out his cheeks in frustration.  “I’ve seen better bulges on teenagers in the locker room.  You’re nothing special.”  
  
“Oh?” Peter asks with a smirk.  “And who is the biggest dick you’ve ever met, Stiles?  Don’t tell me it’s the Whittemore kid.  That attitude is obviously compensating for something.”  
  
“Ugh,” Stiles groans almost painfully, rubbing at his arms under his flannel again.  “The dirty uncle trope is such a fucking cliché.  Don’t you ever get tired of grossing out teenagers?”  
  
“Nope,” Peter says, popping the p in a crude imitation of Stiles’ usual speech.  “It passes the time.  And there’s nothing good on TV, so…”  
  
“You’re insufferable,” Stiles says, hanging his head and flinching again at the pull on his skin.  
  
“You’re kidding, right?   _I’m_ insufferable?   _You’re_ insufferable!”  Peter knows this argument has fallen into something you would hear on an elementary school playground, but he can’t bring himself to stop.  It’s like Stiles is dragging the childish words out of him by the hair, kicking and screaming.  “If I didn’t think Derek would skin me alive and run me out of town, I would kill you where you stand.  This is my fucking town and I’m not going to leave it because my baby nephew thinks he owns the place.”  
  
He hops off the couch, ramping up for a speech that just bubbles out of him unbidden. “You are the most annoying child on the planet and the fact that I’m not allowed to kill you, that I’m actually supposed to be protecting you from nonexistent supernatural intruders, is complete garbage.  It’s a fucking injustice.  Nothing is coming for us because the pack has no use for us.  We are nothing to them and even the fucking demons of Beacon Hills know it.”  
  
Stiles looks like he’s going to protest, so Peter presses on, stepping forward until he can practically smell Stiles’ breath.  
  
“Derek is torturing me.  Spending time with you is payback for my past transgressions, and maybe you think I deserve it, but I’m not going to sit here and help my useless nephew and your revoltingly immature friends and pretend that I care.  They left you here with me, Stiles.  They left you in the care of a deranged murderer with razor sharp claws, and you’re still jumping at the chance to help them?  It’s time you wised up and let them fend for themselves.  You mean nothing to them.  Nothing.  They left you for dead the moment they walked out that door,” he finishes, pointing at the exit.  
  
Stiles’ mouth is open, but nothing is coming out.  He closes his lips lamely, and Peter can hear the way they press together, the way Stiles swallows around a lump in his throat.  Peter rolls his eyes.  Of course, Stiles is going to cry.  These kids are too fucking soft.  If a few truths from Peter are going to make Stiles have a fucking breakdown, there’s no hope for the rest of them.  It looks like the kid is about to vomit, all pale and shaking.  
  
Unsurprisingly, Stiles runs from the room taking the spiral steps two at a time until he reaches the bathroom and slams the door.  Peter sighs and flops back down on the sofa.  Dealing with teenagers is exhausting.  It’s not his fault Stiles hasn’t been hardened by now.  These kids haven’t been forged in fire like Peter, haven’t lost everything and drowned themselves in guilt like Derek.  They need to learn now, or the world is going to chew them up and spit them out, demons or no.  
  
“Make sure you take a shower while you’re in there,” Peter calls upstairs, not sure why he needs to pile on when the kid clearly went to the bathroom to hide his tears if the sniffling is anything to go by.  “You still smell like you’re dying!”  
  
He can hear Stiles rustling around in the bathroom and turning on the taps.  Peter chuckles out a laugh, wondering whether Stiles is actually following his advice and drowning his sorrows in a bath.  There is the sound of fabric rubbing together, clothing moving over skin, and Peter assumes Stiles is undressing and finding a towel.  It’s not until the metallic scent of fresh blood hits his nose—much stronger than the death stench that’s lingering all over the loft—that Peter startles upright.  Surely Stiles isn’t hurting himself.  Peter knows he was being a bit harsh, but it probably wasn’t anything the kid hadn’t already thought himself, right?  
  
As the scent of blood grows sharper, Peter finds himself doubting that assertion.  He readies himself to rush up the stairs and then hesitates.  Stiles probably just slipped in the tub.  If he runs into the bathroom to find a naked teenager, he’s never going to live it down.  But then Peter’s thoughts go back to Derek.  If Stiles gets hurt on his watch, there’s going to be a tribunal, Derek, Scott, and Allison, all calling for his head, not to mention the sheriff and Chris Argent.  That’s something that he could live without.  He’s still weighing his options when a crack like a gunshot sounds from overhead.  
  
Beyond curious and more than a little concerned, Peter darts up the stairs at full speed, skidding to a halt outside the bathroom door.  He pounds on the metal with his fist, trying to school his voice into something that could pass for nonchalance.  “Stiles?  Are you alright in there?”  
  
Peter doesn’t smell gunpowder.  He would have noticed if Stiles had come into the loft with a weapon, but still, the ominous cracking sounds again and something in Peter’s chest clenches.  It’s sharp and painful, and he doesn’t understand why he’s so affected, but something is pulling him there.  His palm is flat against the door before he even realizes he’s moved, desperate to fall through to the other side.  
  
“Stiles?”  
  
When there’s no answer again, just the torn, choked sound of sobbing, Peter backs up to the railing of the upper landing and calls back, “I’m coming in.  Back away from the door if you can.”  Without further pleasantries, Peter crashes into the door with his shoulder, the rusty industrial lock breaking off with a clang.  His outstretched hand catches the rebounding door before it can smack him in the face and Peter stares, dumbfounded.  
  
It takes him a few seconds to even register what he’s looking at.  Stiles is there, obviously, but at the same time, he’s not.  There is something completely different curled in on itself on the bathroom floor, streaks of blood and shreds of clothes surrounding it in a circle.  There are feathers seemingly falling from the sky, fluttering slowly through the air, catching Peter’s attention when they pass by his face.  Some are matted with blood, others are bent at odd angles or broken in half.  The sharp edges of the stems looking as if they are in pain themselves, much like Stiles, whose back is ripped wide open, torn to make way for bone.  The base of Stiles’ wings jutting out of jagged wounds.  
  
Once that sinks in, the fact that there are gigantic, broken wings protruding from Stiles’ lithe frame, the constant scratching and scent of death finally make sense to Peter.  Stiles’ wings must have been trying to break free for ages.  They look like they’ve begun to atrophy, stuck inside for too long, rotting away.  The sight is awesome in its brutality.  Stiles could be a vengeful angel of death for all Peter knows.  Dozens of theories run around Peter’s head before he comes to his senses and crouches down on the floor.  
  
“Stiles?” Peter asks softly.  Stiles flinches slightly when Peter holds out his hand but then exhales slowly, breath coming out in a whimper.  “Let me?” he asks, still not able to see Stiles’ face.  Even folded back, the wings are too large to maneuver around and Stiles is facing the corner of the room near the toilet.  Peter silently gives thanks that the loft has high ceilings and the open space of an empty warehouse, because otherwise, he’s not sure Stiles’ wings would be able to stretch out.  They look like they might spread to about 8 feet, though he can’t be sure yet.  
  
Stiles nods, the slight movement of his chin giving Peter permission to press a hand to his lower back as softly as he can.  Even still, Stiles hisses when Peter’s fingers press against his cracked skin.  It takes all of Peter’s effort not to pull his hand back when the pain hits him.  If he were standing he thinks he would have staggered under the weight of the sensation.  It’s only trumped by the fire, something that had taken Peter 6 years to recover from.

He hopes it won’t take that long for Stiles’ pain to subside because he’s not sure the human could stand it.  But then again, Stiles is stronger than they give him credit for.  Even the bitten wolves forget what it’s like to feel pain that lingers, pain that there is no hope of escaping from.  Just knowing that you will heal soon, that the pain will be fleeting, is enough to keep you going when you’re a wolf.  Humans don’t have that luxury.  
  
It’s ten minutes of Peter resisting the urge to vomit before Stiles pulls away from his hands, able to bear the pain enough to move.  He turns gingerly until he’s facing Peter, mouth set in a tight line, eyes dark.  Stiles looks fierce and grimly determined.  He’s beautiful, so Peter tells him so.  It doesn’t even occur to him to hold the words back.  Stiles huffs out an exasperated noise, but it’s soft, little breath behind it.  
  
“You get hard when you smell blood, don’t you?” Stiles jokes gruffly.  “Fucking weirdo.”  
  
Peter wants to protest but finds that he can’t, so he looks at the ground instead.  He is somewhat aroused, but he’s fairly sure it’s due to Stiles’ general appearance and not the fact that he’s bleeding sluggishly from where his wings have broken free.  
  
“That’s what I thought,” Stiles says lamely, eyes closing as his shoulders sag from the pain creeping back in.  
  
Without analyzing himself too closely, Peter reaches out to cup Stiles’ cheek, veins running black when he begins to pull at his pain again.  “You’re not beautiful because you’re covered in blood.  You just… look like an angel.  Divine.”  He winces internally at his own words but lets them stand.  It’s not as if they’re untrue.  
  
Stiles looks at him then, eyes boring into him, confused by his touch.  Peter meets his gaze, unashamed.  How could he not look?  There is something completely foreign to him in front of his face and he needs to know absolutely everything about it.  He needs to know what Stiles knows.  
  
“Did you know about this?” he asks first, though he can discern the answer from Stiles’ expression.

Stiles shakes his head, and the sensation is mesmerizing.  The way he nudges his cheek into Peter’s palm with every pass sends a shock through him, sharper than the underlying pain he’s already taking.  Why does it feel like this?

Peter needs more.  
  
“Did something bite you?  Curse you?  A… creature?”  Stiles shakes his head again and Peter’s eyes glisten when his whole arm jolts with pain.  He doesn’t let go though, he presses in further, still soft, but steady, as gentle a pressure as he can manage.  “Maybe you were born like this?” he says quietly, hoping he’s not going to upset Stiles any further.  “Your wings… they look full grown but rough.  Maybe they’ve been stuck since you were born.”  
  
Stiles nods solemnly.  Peter can feel him swallow through his palm.  It feels weirdly intimate and suddenly Peter is horrified that he’s been so close.  He tilts his head slightly in question and Stiles bites his lip in agreement, so Peter pulls his hand away and sits back on his heels, putting some distance between them.  
  
“You need to help me,” Stiles says eventually.  He’s still in too much pain to move off the floor, but he’s picked up a stray feather, twirling it between two fingers with a look of pure terror on his face.  Peter nods immediately, eager and willing to be involved in whatever this is.He brings his eyes up to Peter, wild and desperate and says, “You need to help me figure this out.  Hide me from my dad.  He can’t know about this.  Scott being a werewolf was one thing, but this… Me?  His own kid being a… whatever I am?”  He laughs darkly before continuing “ I don’t know how this happened or why but if I’m a fucking angel now, I want a refund.  I don’t even believe in God.  It’s like a fucking sick joke.”

Peter’s eyes flick between the feather spinning between Stiles’ fingers and the harsh angle of the bend of his wings above his shoulders.  He doesn’t look like any picture of an angel Peter has ever seen.  There should be an elegant swooping curve there, neat little rows of white or gold or silver, pointed tips flung far out from Stiles’ body and a halo above his head.  If Stiles is an angel, the myths are all wrong.  There is nothing delicate about this.  It’s gruesome and awful and it makes Peter hurt just to look at, let alone pull pain from.  
  
Peter takes a moment to gather his thoughts.  Stiles has a secret, and Peter knows what it is.  He’s privy to something confidential now, something Derek doesn’t know.  Peter needs this secret for leverage.  If he’s ever going to get a leg up on Derek he’s going to need an ally.  Having Stiles on his side would be the best kind of leverage.  With Stiles comes Scott, and getting Scott off his back would greatly increase Peter’s quality of life.  If he never has to hear a lecture on why killing people is wrong again it would be too soon.    
  
With Stiles also comes the sheriff, and really, Derek should have made his peace with the local leadership long ago.  It’s the responsible thing to do if you’re going to be operating any kind of business in polite society.  Talia had her hand in everything that went on in Beacon Hills; politics, finance, education, public works, you name it.  Derek is operating in the shadows like a cockroach.  He should know better.  Stiles has been doing his best to keep the supernatural stuff off his father’s plate unless absolutely necessary, but it’s beyond time for that to stop.  With the sheriff comes power, and Stiles is his ticket into the game.  
  
“Yeah, come on,” Peter says, moving forward to help Stiles off the floor.  “I’ll clean this up and take you to my place.  We need to research.”  
  
Stiles gives him a half-hearted smirk at the thought even as he stumbles into Peter’s arms.  


	2. Chapter 2

Peter doesn’t have guests, but he prides himself on being a good host.  His standards for comfort are high.  After spending months in the ground and years in a hospital bed, he’s even fussier than he used to be, determined to live in the lap of luxury now that he is free to do so.  Stiles’ face, when he opens the door and guides him inside, tells him that he’s exceeded expectations.   
  
“What are you?  A millionaire?” Stiles asks as Peter half drags; half carries him through the living room and into the hall bath.  Peter could lift him easily, but there’s no good way to grip someone who’s in agonizing pain and has two extra appendages.  The best method they could come up with was Stiles’ arms around Peter’s neck and draped across his back.  They did the best they could with the meager first aid kit at the loft and while the wounds on Stiles’ back are clean, Peter isn’t sure if he’ll have accelerated healing or have to endure it the human way.     
  
“Yes, actually,” Peter grunts out as he sits Stiles down on the closed lid of the toilet and goes to turn on the shower.  “You don’t sound grateful,” he adds.  “Want me to take you to the motel on sketch alley instead?”   
  
“Hey, they have HBO now, don’t hate,” Stiles whines.  Peter supposes there’s something about straddling a toilet with your face to the wall that adds insult to injury.   
  
“Well I’ll gladly shove you back in the trunk of the Range Rover if you prefer,” Peter says, looking at Stiles over his shoulder while he tests the temperature of the shower with one hand.   
  
Stiles glares daggers at him, wings quivering a bit like they’re threatening to extend.  Peter hasn’t seen that happen yet.  He doesn’t know if Stiles is even capable of spreading his wings.  They might not even bend at the joints without breaking, judging by the odd angle they’re sitting at.  He looks like a distressed bird, flapping feverishly, desperate to get off the ground.  There’s no way Stiles can fly with them looking like this.  Peter isn’t even positive if they’re permanent or if Stiles will have to hide the rest of his life, unable to go out in public.  The thought makes his chest tighten.  He knows what it’s like to be stuck indoors indefinitely.   
  
“Ready?” Peter asks, holding out a hand to Stiles.  He can’t get up without Peter’s help, even though he tries, so Peter puts his hands under Stiles’ arms and deadlifts him.  “Kick your shoes off or they’ll never dry,” he instructs while Stiles’ legs are dangling in midair, his face just above Peter’s head, body at a diagonal.  If Stiles were any taller it wouldn’t work at all.  Still, he struggles but manages to kick off his sneakers as Peter carries him to the tub.  It’s a shame, Peter thinks as he lowers Stiles back down and angles the spray, there’s about to be blood and feathers all over his pristine charcoal tile floor.   
  
He doesn’t have much time to dwell on that though, because the instant the warm water comes into contact with Stiles’ wings, he throws himself out of the way, shrieking in pain.  It’s a mad scramble for Peter to turn the water off while Stiles thrashes in the tub, crushing his already tattered wings.   
  
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Peter mutters as he turns back to Stiles.  He’s got his eyes shut tight, face scrunched up in pain as he attempts to hold his body up on his palms to give his wings room.  Peter doesn’t hesitate to pick him up again, standing him back up in the tub in his damp jeans and socks.  “Let’s try something else,” Peter says with eyebrows raised.  Stiles jerks his head down in a determined nod, jaw still clenched tight.

 

* * *

 

After a lengthy bit of experimentation, Stiles is sitting in a tub full of ice water in his underwear while Peter wipes him gently with a washcloth.  His skin feels the cold, but it seems to be the only thing his feathers can tolerate.  It’s nothing compared to the _ice bath of death_ he took at Deaton’s anyway.    
  
Peter works as swiftly as possible, painfully aware of the grimace on Stiles’ face and the way his breath is coming out slowly through clenched teeth.  Every time a feather breaks off under the pressure of the washcloth, a tear escapes Stiles’ eye, so Peter drops it into the tub and just uses his fingers.  It creates ripples in the tub, ice clinking against the porcelain while bits of feathers bob and swirl in a bleak dance.   
  
Stiles suggests dish soap since he’s seen commercials of rescue workers using it on oil covered ducks.  Peter works it into a lather between his palms and eases each feather between his fingers, rubbing circles to remove the muck and then smoothing them back in the right direction once they’re clean.  It takes hours of delicate work, and Peter can’t even be sure that he’s getting everything since Stiles’ wings are still folded, but he tries his best.  The downy gray sections on the underside close to Stiles’ torso are the most difficult.  It’s soft to the touch, but the feathers are so small they almost blend together.  There’s a name for these things, Peter knows, but he’s not an expert on avian anatomy.  It’s clear that there’s hours of research ahead of them.   
  
He falls into a rhythm; dip, wipe, rub, dip, wipe, rub.  The air feels thick between them, full to bursting with words unsaid.  A bubble grows in Peter’s chest, tight enough to not give him enough breath.  It feels far too intimate, and too quiet, like intruding on the funeral of someone you only knew in passing, backing away while the family members weep.  He can pull teeny bits of pain out through Stiles’ feathers and it makes his fingers ache like they’re arthritic, like they’ll never lie straight again.  Stiles’ head is hung low, his shoulders hunched as he shivers.  His wings are too heavy for his shoulders and chest to support and Peter can see his muscles straining with effort.  Peter works faster, focusing on the honey brown color of Stiles’ primary feathers, almost a foot long each, perfectly matching his hair.   
  
Eventually, Peter thinks he’s done all he can do.  Stiles’ feathers are sparse and disheveled, but none of them are sticking out.  Once they are dry they might even shine.  Peter wonders if he needs to apply some sort of oil to them to slick them back down.  He needs to get to his computer.   
  
“Good enough?” he asks, holding out his hand for Stiles to take.  Stiles stares at Peter’s fingers for a moment, probably disgusted by how they were just all over his sensitive feathers, and then takes his hand.  Seemingly of their own accord, Stiles’ wings shoot out to their full length and twitch, spraying water all over the room.  He loses his balance momentarily when the tip of one wing smacks into the shower wall and then swoops around, knocking toiletries off the shelf.  Peter catches him before he falls to the floor, ice water sloshing over the side of the tub.  Their eyes lock, wide with shock, then dart between each other and the tips of Stiles’ wings that seem to encompass the entire room, reaching high into the corner near the ceiling.   
  
After a beat, Stiles starts to laugh, and Peter joins in.  The absurdity of it all finally catches up to them and they chuckle and wheeze for a minute before Peter lifts Stiles out of the tub.  They fall quiet again, and Peter makes sure Stiles is stable on his feet before going to find towels and some pajama bottoms for him.  They don’t look at each other when it becomes clear that Stiles can’t get the pants on himself.  Standing on one foot or bending over are both impossible to manage with the weight of his wings throwing off his balance.  Staring at the floor, Peter quickly pulls off Stiles’ soaked boxers, wipes down his legs with the towel, and pulls the pants up.   
  
“Not even going to take a peek?  And they call you a creepy uncle…” Stiles jokes gruffly, his hands still on Peter’s shoulders where he’s kneeling down on the floor.   
  
Peter rolls his eyes but doesn’t take the bait.  “Can you walk?” he asks instead, looking up at Stiles.  It irks him.  Stiles had already grown taller than him, but now, with the impressive wingspan and Peter on his knees, he feels very small.   
  
Stiles shrugs, shoulders still tight and rounded, but his wings appear to have a mind of their own and shake again before folding themselves back.  The tips reach the floor and Peter feels a feather brush his hand.  A shiver runs up his spine as the pain hits him again.  Stiles really needs to get some rest.   
  
They manage to set Stiles up on Peter’s bed, face down with his arms wrapped around a pillow, propping his head up.  Peter doesn’t have any medicine that could dull Stiles’ pain, so he takes enough to make him pass out and stumbles to the kitchen, woozy and lightheaded.  Stiles sleeps fitfully for half an hour while Peter makes smoothies, setting one next to the bed with a straw so Stiles can eat without moving.  Then they get to researching.   
  
With Peter on his laptop and Stiles tapping away on his phone, they read almost everything there is to know about birds, flight, and avian humanoids, all while Peter keeps his left hand on Stiles’ leg, practically sedating him.  After hours of reading interesting tidbits aloud to each other, they are still nowhere near finding out what Stiles is or how to get his wings back inside his body; if it’s even possible.   
  
“I’m still going with gamayun,” Stiles muses, tapping furiously with his thumbs.  
  
“You are not a winged siren,” Peter says for the fifth time in the last hour.  “You can’t even sing.”  
  
“Well no, but I speak the truth a lot,” Stiles points out.  He’s been picking the details of each myth that fit him and ignoring everything that doesn’t.  
  
“You’re forgetting your Sherlock Holmes,” Peter says, not bothering to look up, but tapping his fingers lightly on Stiles’ calf where is pants are rucked up.  “By that logic, you could be a harpy because you eat occasionally.”  
  
“Well, what am I then?” Stiles groans, rolling his shoulders.  Peter presses into his leg a little firmer until the waves of pain are almost too much for him, but Stiles sighs and his head sags, so Peter continues doing it.  “If these things are permanent, I’m fucked.  No Stanford for Stiles.  They’d put me in a lab somewhere and I’d never see the sun again.  Is there a school for talented youngsters in California?  Any refuges I should know about?”   
  
“If it comes to that, we’ll figure something out,” Peter says, and the words just come right out.  He’s not planning on going away with Stiles, just helping him find a place and sending him on his way, of course.  But the corner of Stiles’ mouth curls into half of a smile and that balloon is back in Peter’s chest, filling him up and stretching him to his limit.   
  
“I’m cold,” Stiles says tilting his head toward Peter, who realizes he’s been staring at the honey and gold on the edges of Stiles’ wings, brightened considerably since he’s been properly groomed.   
  
“The heat is on 85,” Peter says, having bumped up the temperature only a half hour ago.  “If I make it any hotter I’m going to pass out.”  
  
“Fine,” Stiles says, and goes back to looking at his phone, still determined to find an answer when Peter has all but given up.  There is no manual for this.  He doesn’t have any winged friends to call upon, and it’s clear that the sheriff was completely blown away by the supernatural when he first saw it, so he would be no help either.  Actually, they were lucky Melissa was able to talk him down after Scott shifted with no warning and he drew his gun.  
  
Stiles starts to shiver, and Peter just can’t take it anymore.  It vibrates up his arm, turning the pain into something that reverberates into his shoulder.  “Get up,” he says, standing himself and pulling his shirt off.   
  
“Why?” Stiles asks, peering blearily at Peter out of one eye.  He stiffens soon afterward though, when the pain creeps back in without Peter’s touch.  Peter stumbles a bit when he stands.  The pain is easier to handle when it’s constant.  When he stops, it all rushes to his head and makes him queasy.  
  
“If you’re going to keep bitching about it, we’re going to do this the old-fashioned way,” he says, unbuckling his belt and starting on his pants.   
  
“If you’re trying to earn that creepy uncle title, you can have it.  No need to demonstrate,” Stiles says, frowning down at Peter’s now bare feet.  It feels overly familiar, the way Stiles looks at his ankle bones, how his eyes trail up his calves.   
  
“I’m not your uncle, Stiles,” Peter points out, pulling down the covers now that Stiles is off the mattress.  “We’re both adults.  There’s no need to be shy.”  
  
“I’m not being shy, you’re being ridiculous,” Stiles says, eyes widening when Peter lies down on his back and pats the mattress next to him in invitation.   
  
Peter can smell that Stiles appreciates the way he looks, and usually he’d mock him for it, but after all that’s happened between them today, it doesn’t feel right.  Instead, he just raises his eyebrows and curls a finger at Stiles. “Come here.”  
  
Stiles’ Adam’s apple throbs as he swallows, looking down at the way the pajama pants he’s wearing are threatening to tent.  “I’m not going to do anything, I’m just trying to give us both a rest, alright?” Peter says, growing inpatient.   
  
“Fine, just, don’t make it weird, okay?” Stiles asks, timidly climbing onto the bed.  His arms give out quickly and he falls on Peter’s chest with an “Oomph.”  
  
Reaching around, barely brushing past Stiles’ feathers, Peter pulls the comforter up over their legs until it bunches up just below where Stiles’ wings emerge from his back.  “There,” he says softly, noticing that Stiles is avoiding his eyes, looking for an appropriate place to put his hands and face.  “You’ll be warm in no time.”  
  
Stiles huffs and wriggles, clearly unused to lying on top of another person.  After a few tense minutes, Peter grabs him around the wrists and moves Stiles’ freezing cold arms until they are wrapped around the back of his neck.  With that done, Stiles has to hook his chin over Peter’s bare shoulder and turn, sharing the pillow and breathing into Peter’s ear.  “Is this really necessary?” he asks.  
  
Peter turns to look at him, bringing his right arm up to rest above his head while his left settles on Stiles’ lower back.  It feels like a natural position to Peter, that’s where his hand would be if he were sleeping alone, and he has to touch Stiles’ skin to take his pain anyway.  So what if his fingertips are brushing the swell of the kid’s ass?  It’s not his fault Stiles needs constant contact.  The enormity of Stiles’ wings form an alcove for them like they’ve secured themselves in a nest or a den, and Peter doesn’t know how to feel about it.   
  
“Do you want me to take your pain or not?” Peter replies, giving Stiles a death stare.  Better to threaten than comfort, he supposes.   
  
“Fine, whatever,” Stiles says, rolling his head until the pillow is flattened to his liking.  He settles for a minute, and then the squirming starts again.   
  
Peter has impeccable self-control, but he’s not a saint.  He wants to growl and yell until Stiles gives it a fucking rest, but he’s too tired.  The pain is still flowing into his arm and his whole body aches with it, all the way down to his toes, which are currently brushing Stiles’ calves because the kid is just too tall.  With a sigh, Peter reaches his arm across to the side table and shuts the light off.  When he rolls back, his hand finds the edge of Stiles’ wing and ghosts over it, light as air.    
  
Stiles shivers, but Peter does it again, telling himself he is not _petting_ the teenager in his bed.  He thinks he can feel where Stiles’ lost feathers are already starting to grow back in.  There are tiny barbs poking their way out of the holes that Peter found earlier, calami, Peter’s mind supplies.  Easy and gentle, his fingertips flit over the growing feathers, marveling at their texture.  They’re sharp like blades, and Peter skirts the pad of his finger across the hollow edge, wondering how much pressure it would take him to draw blood.  His chest tightens again when Stiles’ primary coverts start to twitch, seeking out his touch, demanding his attention.   
  
A hot breath exhales against his neck, and Stiles seems to sink even further into his body.  Encouraged, Peter continues his ministrations, stroking and smoothing Stiles’ feathers until his wings shudder and he sighs again, rolling his head until he’s pressed against Peter, cheek to cheek.  
  
Stiles is quiet, and Peter finds himself speechless as well.  Nothing about this should feel normal, and yet something deep down in Peter settles.   
  
It’s hot inside their cocoon, but somehow not stifling.  Peter has what is probably nearing 200 pounds of teenager on top of him, if you add in the wings, and is surprised to find that he is comfortable.  Stiles’ pain ebbs as he settles into sleep, and Peter is free to take his hand off Stiles’ skin, but he doesn’t.  Instead, he rubs soothing circles with his thumb as his other hand continues to run the length of Stiles’ wings in as long a sweep as he can reach without jostling him.  Peter closes his eyes and sinks into the dual sensations of stroking Stiles, who feels like two different people in his arms at once, skin and feather.   
  
He’s more than a teenager.  He’s now a myth made flesh, and Peter wants him all.

 

* * *

 

They wake up sweaty.  Peter is so hot he wants to toss Stiles off of him, but even in his half-awake state, he refrains.  Rolling his stiff shoulders the best he can with the weight of Stiles still on top of him, he opens his eyes to a pile of messy brown hair shoved right under his nose.  What is more surprising is that his hands are on Stiles’ bare, wing-free back.  His skin is smooth, the jagged wounds somehow completely healed.   
  
“Stiles?” he whispers, running his palms up and down his back automatically.  “I think we might have fixed your problem.”   
  
“Hmm?” Stiles groans, rubbing his face back and forth across Peter’s shoulder, which now feels damp with drool.   
  
“Your wings are gone,” Peter says softly, hand moving up to Stiles’ shoulder to check if he’s in any pain.  There isn’t much, but it seems to grow as Stiles wakes and Peter pulls at it, massaging Stiles’ shoulder as he goes.  The muscles feel tight.  Peter knows that Stiles’ body isn’t strong enough to carry that much weight around indefinitely.  They’ll need to work on his pectorals and trapezius muscles until wearing his wings won’t tire him out so much.  It’s unclear to him whether or not Stiles will be able to fly, but if he ever does Peter imagines it’s going to take a lot of hard work and practice.   
  
Shaking his head, Peter stops himself from making any more plans.  They’re not even friends.  And yet Peter still wants to be involved somehow.  He wants to know everything Stiles can do, so he can use it to his own advantage, of course.  If Stiles could fly, together they could be unstoppable.   
  
“Hey, come on,” Peter says, shaking Stiles by the shoulder.  “I’d like to get up and use the bathroom if you don’t mind.”   
  
“Huh?” Stiles asks, slowly lifting his head off Peter’s chest, eyes bleary.   
  
Peter can see the moment Stiles realizes where he is and who he is on top of, not only because his wings shoot out of his body and practically catapult him across the room, but because of the way his entire body tenses and his mouth falls open.  Stiles hits the far wall of the bedroom hard, knocking over a lamp on the way.  The bulb shatters when it hits the ground and unthinking, Stiles puts his hand down to catch his fall and lands right in a pile of glass.   
  
Scrambling off the bed, Peter rushes after Stiles, but can’t get that close, there are several feet of feathers in the way.  “Are you okay?” he asks, stepping only as far as he can without reaching glass with his bare feet.   
  
“No I am not fucking okay,” Stiles growls, wings sweeping out to the side so Peter can see the tears welling in his eyes and the blood blooming on his hand.  “I’m a fucking wreck and everything hurts and you’re being nice to me and it’s weirding me the fuck out!”   
  
“I don’t know what you want me to say to that,” Peter says honestly, holding out a hand for Stiles to take.  “But if you want to just sit there in a puddle of your own blood, you’re welcome to.  I could even go out and leave you the whole apartment to wallow in.”   
  
“Fuck you,” Stiles spits, still cradling his hand which has several shards of glass sticking out of the palm.   
  
“You wish,” Peter replies easily, rolling his eyes.  “You couldn’t handle me, sweetheart.  Now get your ass off the floor and come to the bathroom.  If your hand starts healing like your back you’re going to need to dig that glass out and trust me, it’s not pleasant.”   
  
Stiles frowns, wipes away the tears with his clean hand, and struggles to stand.  “You know I hate you, right?”   
  
“Oh, I’m well aware.  I hate you as well.  And I can keep telling you that every hour if it makes you feel better.”   
  
“Yeah, that’d be good,” Stiles says, attempting to hop over the glass that’s strewn around his vicinity.  He stumbles, balance completely off, and Peter nearly gets clotheslined with a wing but manages to duck under in time to catch Stiles by the forearms.  “Cut it the fuck out with the knight in shining armor thing.  It’s getting weird.”   
  
“It’s only weird because you’re being weird about it.  If you want me to yell at you instead, all you have to do is ask,” Peter answers, walking backward to his master bath and pulling Stiles along.  His wings loom over Peter’s head like an angry nun’s habit, and Peter feels like he’s about to be spanked with a ruler and dragged down to hell.  They fold just in time for Stiles to fit through the doorway, though he has to turn slightly to make it.   
  
“Are they moving on their own, or do you have to think about it?” Peter asks, too curious to let Stiles’ dark mood last all day.   
  
“It’s like I’m not controlling them at all,” Stiles says collapsing down onto the edge of the tub, the tips of his wings curling around the curve of the tub, barely fitting.  “They do whatever they want.  If I was in control of them they wouldn’t keep knocking me the fuck over.”   
  
Peter nods, poking around in the closet until he finds a pair of tweezers.  Stiles raises his eyebrows at them, but Peter holds up a finger and squeezes a spray of saline solution onto them.  “Good enough?”

“Whatever,” Stiles says dismissively, holding his hand out while ducking his forehead down between his knees.  “Go ahead.”   
  
Peter takes the outstretched palm and holds it in his left hand, pulling another staggering draw of pain from it.  He makes a mental note to order some groceries and first aid necessities online when they’re finished and starts methodically picking the bits of glass out of Stiles’ hand and tossing them in the garbage can.   
  
It’s obvious that it still hurts, but Stiles is doing his best to keep still, buoyed by the semblance of relief that Peter is giving him.  “Your wings are looking better,” Peter says quietly, trying to give Stiles something else to focus on.  “Some of the feathers started to grow back last night.  I bet you’ll be looking majestic in no time.”   
  
“I’m not a fucking bald eagle,” Stiles moans without looking up.   
  
“No, the coloring is more like a Philippine hawk eagle, I’d say,” Peter answers, and Stiles huffs out a laugh.  “Maybe a brown cooper’s hawk.  They’re scrappy, even eat other birds.  Bald eagles are kind of lame for birds of prey.  They mostly eat fish.”   
  
“So glad I amuse you,” Stiles mutters, humor gone from his voice.   
  
“Look, we’re going to figure something out,” Peter says, digging into Stiles’ palm a bit deeper to get more glass.  “Your wings went away once, so we know it’s possible.  We just have to figure out how to do it consistently.”   
  
“Why are you helping me?” Stiles asks, finally raising his head to look Peter in the eye.  “We hate each other, remember?”   
  
“I’m planning to use you in my plot for world domination,” Peter deadpans, flicking the last bit of glass into the garbage.  Stiles’ palm doesn’t look like it’s getting any better, so Peter has to assume that his regeneration only applies to his wings.  He reaches for a washcloth and folds it up to press against Stiles’ hand.  With any luck, it will stop bleeding soon and Peter won’t have to smell Stiles’ injury all day.  Something about it sets his teeth on edge, though he has no idea why.   
  
“You say that, but somehow I don’t believe you,” Stiles says, honey brown eyes boring into Peter like a laser.  “Why are you actually doing this?”   
  
“Because you asked,” Peter says, mouth set in a firm line.  “And I was able, so I agreed.”   
  
“You don’t just do favors,” Stiles says, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to puzzle Peter out.  “And you definitely don’t do cuddling.”   
  
“Just because I don’t cuddle any of you doesn’t mean I haven’t cuddled in the past,” Peter says, a smirk sliding back onto his face.  “I used to bring people home all the time.”   
  
“Again, why don’t I believe you?” Stiles asks, eyes narrowing.   
  
“I don’t know Stiles; I don’t think your wings came with lie detection.  Maybe you’re full of shit, or maybe I am, but you’ll never know, will you?  That’s a werewolf ability, and you are not a werewolf.”   
  
“Well I’m something,” Stiles says, peering over his shoulder at the curve of his wing.  “I just don’t know what yet.”   
  
“Maybe we should make some calls.  Someone must know something about this,” Peter suggests, reaching down to his thigh for his phone before realizing he’s still in his underwear.  He frowns, looking down at the way Stiles’ stomach is curled, barely an ounce of fat on him.  Stiles isn’t aroused this time, and Peter can’t tell if it’s because he’s got bigger things on his mind or if he’s gotten used to Peter’s nudity, comfortable after spending the night pressed up against his skin.   
  
“Just don’t call Deaton,” Stiles says, “I don’t trust that guy at all.”   
  
“As well you shouldn’t,” Peter says, crossing his arms.  Now that they’re just sitting around, his nudity feels odd, like he’s flaunting himself in front of a teenager.  Peter has a healthy amount of narcissistic tendencies, but that’s not what this feels like.  He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but the intimacy of the night before is over now and he’s struck with the need to put on some armor.  “Deaton is only looking out for himself.  Anyone who sides with Scott so easily is not someone to be trusted.  No offense,” he adds as an afterthought, seeing the wounded expression on Stiles’ face.   
  
“None taken, I guess,” Stiles says, pushing down on the edge of the tub with his good hand to get up.   
  
“It’s dangerous to surround yourself with white hats,” Peter says, shuffling out to the bedroom to dress.  “When push comes to shove there’s no one to do the dirty work but you.”   
  
Stiles frowns but doesn’t respond.  Peter takes that as a win and sets about cleaning the glass off the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

After several hours of hunting down Peter’s old contacts—apart from those who seem to have died during Peter’s coma—they are still nowhere. Peter has been asking hypothetical questions over and over again, not willing to give away too much in case Stiles turns out to be valuable to some sort of supernatural collector. It doesn’t work. Werewolves tend to be cagey as a general rule, and the other supes Peter is acquainted with aren’t much better. 

“I could try the magic shop in Sacramento, but I don’t think you can go out like that,” Peter says, gesturing at Stiles’ wings, which are still shivering intermittently. The fluttering noise is starting to get to both of them, but they can’t seem to figure out how to make it stop. Stiles is still cold, and Peter has to assume it’s because his wings are still busy regenerating. It takes a lot of energy to heal, and even wolves throw off a lot of heat doing it. It feels like being wracked with an infection, sweaty and shivery. Peter is doing what he can to keep it at bay, but he’s not a miracle worker and the pain meds he bought don’t seem to be making a dent in what Stiles is feeling. 

“Yeah, I’m going to pass on leaving the house for now,” Stiles mutters, still lying across Peter’s bed on his stomach. There aren’t many comfortable positions for him when his wings are out. Sitting on the couch is out of the question. “Witches would probably want my feathers for some sort of ritual.”

Peter thinks that’s probably a bit bigoted, but it’s also probably not inaccurate, so he just purses his lips and waves his open hand around, signaling maybe. “Well that might be true, but don’t let them hear you say it. They already hate werewolves as a general rule and I don’t need you making it any worse for me. One wrong move and they’ll have me hanging by my tail from the ceiling in their basement.”

“You don’t have a tail,” Stiles points out, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s a figure of speech,” Peter says, pinching Stiles’ calf for a second even though the pain is just going to come back to him anyway. “At least in werewolf families.”

“I think I would have seen your tail by now anyway, the way you and Derek are always running around half naked,” Stiles says, peering at Peter over his shoulder. 

“Nudity isn’t really a concern for us. We are raised differently, socialized differently. Plus, Talia could do a full shift. You learn to brush things off pretty early. With the enhanced senses it’s considered impolite to talk about certain things you might hear or smell. Derek’s puppies haven’t learned that yet, clearly.” Stiles chuckles darkly. “It’s because they’re not related. Everyone wants to see each other naked. As a born wolf there’s only so many times you can see your sister’s tits before you start to ignore them entirely. It’s not hard to tell the difference between a sexual encounter and a non-sexual encounter, though you wouldn’t think that judging by Erica’s standards.”

Stiles’ ears perk up at the mention of werewolf lore, always eager to learn more. “Is that a rare ability, the full shift? Or something only Alphas can do?”

“I think it’s partially genetic, and partially hard work and practice. But as far as I know, it’s only an Alpha trait,” Peter says, tapping away on his laptop with one hand. He still feels like there’s more out there, more folk lore that they haven’t read yet. “Talia was trying to train Laura to do it when she was young since she would be Alpha one day. Derek was never meant to be Alpha, which is obvious to you, I’m sure. We weren’t groomed for it the way the girls were. We were a matriarchal pack.”

“Yeah, from what I’ve heard of Talia and Laura, it didn’t seem like Derek was really following their management manual,” Stiles says, closing his eyes as Peter smooths his hand down his folded wing. Peter’s stomach rumbles, and when he looks at the clock he notices that it’s well past 7 p.m. They worked all day. 

“I’m going to order dinner. You good with Chinese?” he asks, standing up to stretch. 

Stiles whines at the loss of contact but nods anyway. 

“Sweet and sour chicken and fried dumplings for you?” he asks, even though he knows the answer, grabbing his cell phone from the desk and striding away. Stiles’ eyebrows rise like he’s going to ask, so Peter cuts him off. “Just because the rest of the pack is woefully unobservant doesn’t mean I am. Also, you’re predictable.” That’s a lie, but he likes watching Stiles frown as he considers whether it might be true or not. 

Once the order is made, he tosses Stiles’ phone at him from where it was sitting on the coffee table, “Call your father. I don’t need him tracking your phone and breaking down my door.” He listens to Stiles speak softly to his father’s voicemail while he sets the table and gets glasses of water, turning one dining room chair around so Stiles can sit easily. 

Stiles lies into the microphone, brightening his voice even though Peter can see how his face is grimacing, fist banging against the mattress. It shouldn’t bother him, but it does. Peter finds himself wondering what the rest of the pack tells their parents when they’re out hunting demons, if they even bother to do what Stiles is doing. 

At least the sheriff knows about werewolves. What he doesn’t know is that the pack is out dealing with supernatural threats every other night and leaving Stiles alone with Peter. On Stiles’ request, they keep him as far away from things as possible and deal with as much as they can on their own. 

What the sheriff also probably doesn’t know is how the pack is pretty much all paired off and Stiles is probably much lonelier than he lets on. What the sheriff definitely doesn’t know is how much Stiles wishes he were home more often and spent more quality time with him. Peter knows what it’s like to miss a relative so much it hurts with every breath, what he doesn’t have experience with is how it feels when that relative was still alive, but distant. He doesn’t have that desire to connect with Derek the way he thought he might. Maybe there’s something about avunculicide that makes people drift apart.

When Stiles is finished with his call, he struggles to stand. Peter helps him without any comment, easing him down into the dining room chair as they wait for the Chinese place to carry their food around the corner. Peter’s throat tightens when Stiles unexpectedly holds out his hand, but he takes it anyway. Stiles’ palm feels sweaty and overly hot against his skin, but he doesn’t let go. They both stare as the veins on Peter’s forearm become visible, black lines trailing all the way up his arm in little spindles. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. They don’t make eye contact, but they do stay that way until there’s a knock at the door. 

After dinner, it becomes clear that they’re both too tired to continue to research. Peter suggests a movie, but there’s no comfortable way for Stiles to sit on the couch so they end up lying side by side on their stomachs on the bed, eyes on Peter’s laptop. Stiles is getting sick of spending so much time in this position, but they haven’t found any good alternatives yet, so Peter just continues to pull pain from where his hand lies on Stiles’ hip. It’s not romantic, it’s necessary, Peter tells himself as they binge watch Star Trek Enterprise. Peter missed the ending during his coma. 

Peter can feel Stiles start to fall asleep. His pain starts to abate so Peter can focus on running his fingers over Stiles’ growing feathers, the barbs are longer now and dark red with blood flowing through them. If they hurt, Stiles doesn’t let on, so he continues just running his fingers over the tube-like structures. They almost remind him of the ink in a pen, rigid but bendable, hollow but full. Peter can’t stop looking at them. 

Stiles fidgets a bit, not quite settled yet, so Peter switches to stroking down the smooth expanse of his wing. It’s still not looking great, but judging by Stiles’ healing rate, Peter estimates he’ll be back to full plumage in less than a week. He wonders if that’s what Stiles really needs for his wings to retract, for them to be whole and healthy. If so, he only has a few days left of… whatever this is.

“Cold,” Stiles mumbles, smushing his face into the pillow he’s clutching in his arms. 

Peter sighs and rolls his eyes, but reaches for the blanket and pulls it up over both of them, hoping his body heat will help as well, even if they’re mostly clothed this time. Stiles hums low in his throat, arm flailing around until it reaches Peter’s wrist and pulls his arm back around him. Peter allows himself to be nuzzled, and once Stiles is comfortable and warm, breath evening out, he starts to see it happen. Stiles wings start to twitch, threatening to open and then folding back up, back and forth, back and forth, until they continue to fold, almost collapsing as they slowly melt into Stiles’ back. 

Peter expected it to be quick. He can shift his face in half a second, drop his teeth even faster, and yet Stiles’ wings take their time. It’s almost thirty seconds before they’re entirely gone, no trace that they were ever there in the first place. His skin is smooth and soft, not dry and cracked like it had been before the wings emerged for the first time in all their violent, bloody glory. 

Peter just runs his hand over Stiles’ mole-dotted back, in awe of what he just saw. It shouldn’t be that remarkable, he’s a werewolf himself, and yet it’s still shocking somehow. Maybe it’s because he expected Stiles to be human. Stiles was supposed to be human. And yet now he’s something else, and Peter’s mind is having trouble reconciling the two things.

Unwilling to wake Stiles up—and probably be catapulted out of bed when his wings reappear—Peter pulls the man to his chest and clears the laptop off the bed with his other hand. To his surprise, Stiles goes readily, pillowing his head on Peter’s bicep and arching his back until he is pressed against Peter all the way from shoulders to hips. His ass is tucked in tight against Peter’s groin and he closes his eyes, forcing himself to ignore the temptation to hitch his hips forward. Stiles is sleeping. If anything is ever going to happen between them, and Peter isn’t sure that he wants it to, he wants Stiles awake. He wants to see the surrender in Stiles’ eyes when he finally gives in.

Shaking his head slightly at the thought, Peter lays his head down on the pillow and snakes his hand around Stiles’ body to rest it on his chest. He finds that he likes feeling Stiles’ heartbeat through his skin while he hears the fluttering beats in his ears. It settles him somehow, the rhythm steady and constant, if fast, and he lets himself enjoy it, even if it seems odd. Peter doesn’t know why he wants this, why it feels right to him, but he’s never been one to deny himself simple pleasures, so he presses his lips to the back of Stiles’ neck and inhales the scent of his hair as he drifts off to sleep.

Peter wakes up first again, and this time, he doesn’t want Stiles to startle awake, especially not with his chest pressed up against where Stiles’ wings would burst out. It’s odd, how they seem to open in the blink of an eye but need some time to fold themselves up and away. He wants to ask Stiles about it but doesn’t want to wake him up. In fact, Peter doesn’t want Stiles to move from this spot ever again. It’s warm and pleasant and it makes Peter’s mind empty out, like meditation. Somehow they fit together in a way Peter has never experienced before, and he doesn’t want it to end. 

It seems like an easy solution. Never wake up, never move, and Stiles’ wings will stay away. He doesn’t want to analyze those feelings too deeply lest they manifest into something he doesn’t like. It shouldn’t feel so natural, to wake up with Stiles, who until a few days ago he was cursing and tearing down with every breath. It doesn’t make sense, and yet it’s there, something that has happened involuntarily as far as Peter is concerned. 

There is no way in hell Peter is falling for the spastic teenager he’s been forced to spend time with. Peter has been in love before, ages ago, but he still remembers what it feels like, and this is nothing like that. It isn’t love, and it isn’t even attraction, it’s the comfort of caring for a packmate, something that he hasn’t felt in a very long time. Derek and Peter have no desire to cuddle with each other, but it’s natural, to be close to your family, isn’t it? And the pack is just extended family, that’s all.

He shrugs off the nagging feeling that there is something wrong with the way he is acting. Wolves are social animals, they share warmth and take comfort in each other, and this is nothing more than companionship. He is hunting for an injured wolf. It’s nothing more than his sister had done for any number of young wolves over the years. It doesn’t matter that Stiles isn’t a wolf, he’s still pack, just like Peter’s human siblings and cousins were. 

Suddenly Peter is angry with his invisible judge. Why shouldn’t he get to have something nice in his life? Even if it’s an idiotic teenager half naked in his bed. Everyone needs human touch occasionally, and it isn’t like he’s brought anyone home in a few months, not since the school year had ended and Stiles started looking sick when they were tossed aside together. He shakes that thought from his mind as well. He isn’t waiting for Stiles, he isn’t waiting for anything, he’s just taking advantage of an opportunity that has fallen in his lap. Peter is enjoying himself. It’s entirely in character, this hedonism; to take what he wants without any thought to how it might look to others. He isn’t going soft, he’s being selfish.

Stiles stirs and Peter fights not to tense himself. Instead, he forces himself to relax even further, stroking Stiles’ side in long, slow sweeps and pressing tighter into Stiles’ back. Stiles’ hand twitches like he’s about to jolt awake, but Peter is right there, shushing him. He lifts his other hand to comb it through Stiles’ hair, which is a bit oily to the touch. They could both use a shower, and they could probably have one if Stiles’ wings managed to stay away for a few minutes at least. Peter feels like it’s now or never, either this is going to work or it isn’t. The pressure is almost bitter on his tongue as he hooks his chin over Stiles’ shoulder and rubs his stubble against the delicate skin. 

“Stiles?” he whispers, still trailing his fingers lightly against the curve of Stiles’ waist. “Breathe with me.”

Peter isn’t sure if it’s because Stiles is only half awake, or if he’s actually content to be intimate with Peter, but Stiles doesn’t snap awake. He pushes back into Peter’s chest, eyes still closed, but a small smile beginning to play at the corner of his mouth. “Hmm?” he mutters, rolling onto his back, side pressed in tight to Peter’s chest. Peter’s arm comes down to brace himself on the mattress, upper body hovering over Stiles’ chest as he rolls around, stretching. 

Much to Peter’s surprise, Stiles pulls at Peter’s v-neck with long fingers, clenching the fabric in a fist and pulling Peter closer to him, close enough that his breath ghosts over Peter’s mouth. Stiles turns his head to the side and presses a dry kiss to Peter’s cheek, still humming contentedly, rolling again to tuck his face into Peter’s chest and tangle their legs together under the blanket. 

“I don’t want to startle you, but I think there’s something you should know,” Peter says, low and soft, as gentle as his voice can go. 

“Hmm?” Stiles says again, this time his lips are pressed into Peter’s chest, his forehead rolling against a pec while he rolls his shoulders and begins to wake up properly. “What’s that?”

“Your wings retract when you’re sleeping,” Peter says into his hair, pushing through the strands with his nose, drowning himself in the scent of unwashed Stiles.

“So we just sleep forever then?” Stiles muses, practically tucking his face into Peter’s armpit now, which should probably be weird, but absolutely isn’t.

“That is sound logic, but I don’t think it’s very practical,” Peter says, slipping his arm under Stiles and if possible, dragging him even closer.

“What’s your master plan then, hotshot?” Stiles asks, voice still soft with sleep. It makes Peter’s throat go dry.

“It’s not exactly a plan so much as a theory that requires experimentation,” Peter says, ducking his head down to speak directly into Stiles’ ear. Stiles seems to enjoy the rumbling sensation, because he squirms appreciatively against Peter, waking up a certain part of his anatomy that he had been able to control until now.

“Go on,” Stiles says, nudging Peter’s hand until he takes up stroking his back again. 

“Would you agree that your wings appear when you’re startled?”

“Mmmhmm,” Stiles says rubbing his shoulder against Peter’s mouth until he gets a scratchy kiss to his collar bone. 

“So would it be a great leap to say that they’re something of a defense mechanism?” Peter asks, sure of the answer, but content to sleepily walk Stiles through his thought process.

“No,” Stiles says, raising his head slightly so he can see Peter’s face. 

“You can’t put them away when they hurt, or when you’re upset or nervous, which does seem to be all the time for now, since they’re healing,” Peter goes on, keeping his pace even, his tone what he hopes is calming. 

Stiles nods slightly, eyes curious as Peter spells out his theory.

“But when you fall asleep and your pain recedes and you keep your heart rate calm and even, they retract. I can tell, I watched you last night, and if I keep you comfortable, they fold up and disappear.”

“Like Scott with the heart rate monitor,” Stiles says slowly, face screwed up in thought. 

“Yes. So if we can keep you calm during the day, and if your pain stops when your feathers are all grown in, maybe we can control this.”

“You keep saying ‘we,’” Stiles points out, dragging himself away from Peter, who holds on for a moment too long before letting go. In a flash, Stiles is off the bed, wings spread out behind him, blocking all the sunlight from the window. His face darkens and Peter can feel it almost like a cold breeze blowing through the room. Stiles looks magnificent in his anger, and Peter wants to see more of it, but maybe not directed at him. 

“You think you can control this? Control me?” Stiles barks at him, dark bags under his eyes looking more prominent now in the shadow of his feathers. There are still several primaries missing, so when they fan out at the edges like fingers, it looks all the more ominous, like he’s an angel barely being held back from the brink, ready for vengeance. “I’ve been on drugs and seeing therapists for the last decade, and you think a little cuddle from the friendly pack murderer is going to keep me calm? It’s not that easy. It can’t be.”

Peter opens his mouth and the words don’t come out. Everything he wants to say sounds trite and far too personal. The thoughts that he’s thinking all sound…romantic. He’s not about to tell Stiles how spooning made him feel like a changed man, it’s absurd to even consider. He can’t make any proclamations here. 

He can’t tell Stiles they can be a team, that they can get through this together, that he’ll stand by him and help him learn to fly and brush him off when he falls. Peter can’t explain himself. He doesn’t know how to tell Stiles that in the past two days his wolf has decided to build a new pack and that it currently only has two members. 

“Look,” Peter says, forcing himself to look into Stiles’ eyes and not at his feathers or the floor. “I’m not trying to tell you that ten years of hell was worthless because I don’t know if that’s true. I’m not passing any judgments about how you learned how to deal with your issues. I clearly didn’t use the healthiest coping mechanisms myself.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes at that statement, but Peter keeps going, hands up in front of him in the universal signal for surrender. He needs to make his point before he forgets why he’s not telling Stiles that he’s pack. “All I’m telling you is what I saw. You fell asleep with me stroking your wings, and they retracted. That’s a fact. What you choose to do with that information is up to you. But if it were me, I would recognize it for what it is; a solution to a problem, and the only one we have right now, I might add. You want to get out of here and see your father and friends again? Let’s test this theory and see how we can make it work for you. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.”

Stiles’ eyebrows are scrunched together, his mouth a firm line as he listens to Peter’s speech. He isn’t convinced, and Peter can’t really blame him, but he also needs Stiles to make this decision on his own. 

“Answer me this at least,” Peter says, licking his lips and lowering his hands. “Did you enjoy sleeping with me? You seemed pretty comfortable this morning.”

“That’s not the issue,” Stiles snaps, crossing his arms. It looks a little ridiculous with his wings still spread wide. It makes Stiles look all the more threatening. All he’s missing is his baseball bat, then the picture would be complete. 

“Let’s make it the issue then, because if it works we should use it to our advantage,” Peter says tossing his hands up in exasperation. 

“There you go again, saying ‘we!’ Since when are you and me a ‘we?’ We aren’t anything!” Stiles shouts at him, waving his hand between his and Peter’s chests. “You hate me! I know that because you’ve told me so, several times! You told me yesterday that you’d tell me once an hour that you hate me! That you’d never let me forget it, you fucking asshole!”

“You complete moron, we’re fucking pack!” Peter screams, voice going much higher than he’s comfortable with once it hits his ears. 

Stiles’ mouth falls open and Peter closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose, not wanting to look at Stiles as his face turns from shock to laughter. He waits a minute, but the laughter doesn’t come. Testing, Peter opens one eye and finds that Stiles is still peering at him quizzically. His wings have drooped slightly. It looks odd to Peter, like the wings have a mind of their own and are offering Peter a hug even while Stiles’ hands are clenched into fists at his side. 

Stiles tilts his head and squints at him. “I know you hate Scott and Allison and you don’t give a shit about the rest of us, even if you find Erica mildly amusing when she teases Derek, and you just told Derek that you weren’t helping him anymore. You barely even tolerate Boyd and he’s the least objectionable of the bunch. So how are we a pack?”

“They’re not pack,” Peter says harshly, his face set into a frown. “You’re pack. Just you.”

“Just me?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” Peter says, rubbing at his forehead in frustration. “We don’t need to discuss it.”

“How do we not need to discuss it?” Stiles groans, rolling his eyes as his wings bend and unbend in aggravation. “You can’t just tell me that I’m in your own little pack of two when you’re not even an Alpha and tell me that we’re not going to discuss how that happened.”

“I don’t know how to describe it, okay? You’re not a wolf, you’re not going to understand.”

“Try me,” Stiles says, folding his arms again. “I may not be a wolf but I’m clearly something,” he says, pointing at wings. “You have no idea what I feel now. I don’t even know what I feel now, but it’s different. I know that much at least. Something is very different here.”

“It just…” Peter trails off, starting to pace in front of Stiles, still unwilling to expose any more of himself. Stiles already knows that he likes Star Trek, there’s no need to give him any more ammunition. “I just feel it, okay? You’re pack, and pack cares for pack, and pack doesn’t leave pack behind, alright?”

“Pack doesn’t let pack wear Crocs and pack doesn’t let pack drunk text their exes?” Stiles asks through a smirk. 

“You’re not taking me seriously,” Peter groans, silently cursing himself for becoming attached to the most annoying kid on the planet. 

“Because you sound ridiculous,” Stiles argues.

“Why can’t you just admit that you might need me?” Peter counters, taking the focus off himself and his feelings. 

“Because I don’t!”

“Let me prove it,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows in challenge. 

Never one to back down from a fight, Stiles smiles a broad and cocky smile, hands on his hips. “Show me what you’ve got Zombie Wolf.”

“If I win this bet do you agree to never call me that again?”

“I don’t know, that sounds like two separate wagers to me,” Stiles says, watching with wide eyes as Peter pulls off his shirt. 

It’s obvious to Peter that Stiles is staring, but he ignores it, knowing that Stiles needs to be comfortable if this is going to work. “No cheating,” he says, stepping toward Stiles. “You have to at least work with me here. Fair is fair.”

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” Stiles asks, almost laughing. “You’re the black hat, remember? Life isn’t fair, you get what you get. If you want fairness you have to go talk to Scott.”

“Whatever, just come here,” Peter says, tone flippant and impatient. “Now, Stiles,” he snaps when Stiles makes no move to obey.

“Bossy,” Stiles mutters, taking a step forward anyway. 

“Don’t even try to tell me that you don’t like it. I can smell it on you,” Peter says none too kindly. He groans internally, mad with himself. He was supposed to be making this easier on Stiles, not harder. 

“You’re not helping your case. You know that, right?” Stiles says.

“I’m doing my best, okay? I’m not exactly gentle by nature and your attitude isn’t helping.” Peter mutters but shakes it off. He steps forward until he can wrap his arms around Stiles’ waist and press their cheeks together. Stiles’ entire body tenses, but Peter doesn’t back off. This time he squeezes a little tighter and brings his mouth to Stiles’ ear. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this isn’t about sex. I know you’re 18 and I’m gorgeous, but if you can just focus on your breathing and not the rest of your body, this will work.”

“Shut up or I will punch you,” Stiles says angrily, not at all impressed with Peter’s bravado. He flinches when Peter grumbles, vibrating his chest, but does his best to settle quickly. 

“Okay, just…” Peter trails off, distracted by the way Stiles’ wispy stubble is rubbing against his cheek. “I know you can’t hear it like I do, but try to listen and breathe.” He moves one hand to cup the back of Stiles’ neck and gently guides him downward until his ear is pressed against Peter’s chest. 

It’s too close, far too close, the way Peter can feel Stiles’ throat bobbing against his sternum when the man swallows, but he breathes through it. With every inhale he gets a stronger pull of Stiles’ scent, still not mellowed completely, but not nearly as harsh and bitter as it was a few minutes ago. Peter closes his eyes gently, trying to ease the tension he can feel in his forehead as he concentrates on breathing evenly. 

Without thinking too deeply about it, he starts to hum. It’s awful and utterly tuneless, but the vibrations in his throat belong somehow. They make a halo around Stiles and Peter, something he can’t see but can feel, like a cocoon of warmth. Releasing Stiles’ waist, he raises a hand and trails it down Stiles’ arm; once, twice, and three times, lighter than air. It takes a few minutes, but eventually, Peter feels Stiles let out a sigh and melt into him just a little bit further. 

Spurred by the progress, Peter moves on to stroking the back of Stiles’ arms with his palms, his knuckles just grazing the feathers closest to his body. This would have been more comfortable lying or sitting down, but it works. Stiles is hunched over slightly, ear still pressed to Peter’s chest, but his muscles feel relaxed. 

It starts off slow, nearly slower than Peter can stand, the way Stiles’ wings start to recede, but he fights the urge to hold his breath. He continues breathing as evenly as he can and waits until the primary feathers brush past the back of his hand on their way back inside. Finally, Peter slowly trails his hand from Stiles’ arm to his back, smooth and bare. He strokes Stiles’ back for a few more minutes, not wanting to shock Stiles out of his meditation too quickly, and then rubs circles into the back of his hair until he stirs and shifts away from his chest. 

“All gone,” Peter says softly, a hint of a smirk on his lips. 

Stiles blinks up at him, a little bleary-eyed, but with an open expression that Peter doesn’t know what to do with. Is he upset? Angry? Repulsed? Stiles’ heartbeat is even and his scent is back to normal, or as normal as it has been since his wings emerged the first time. There’s something different about it, but it’s still Stiles, halfway healthy for the first time in months. 

“You son of a bitch,” Stiles mutters, letting his forehead fall back against Peter’s chest. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say ‘thank you,’” Stiles argues, upturned nose rubbing against the top of Peter’s pec.

“No, but that’s what I heard,” Peter says smugly, smirk widening. 

“You are terrible,” Stiles mumbles, still pressed entirely against Peter’s body. 

“You’re calling your only packmate terrible? What kind of camaraderie is that?” Peter says softly, lips brushing the top of Stiles’ hair as he absentmindedly rocks them back and forth. 

“It is camaraderie. You’ve made a pack of terrible people. You’re terrible and I’m terrible, and it’s just us two, right?” Stiles asks, peeking up at Peter through long eyelashes.

“And I’d like to keep it that way if you don’t mind. Your friends are useless, my nephew included.”

“They have their moments, but yeah, I see what you’re getting at,” Stiles says, squeezing Peter around the waist a little tighter. “It can be just us.”

Peter isn’t sure how long those arms have been there, but he’s not exactly throwing Stiles off either. They seem to have settled something somehow, and he’s not interested in messing with it. 

After another minute, Stiles speaks again, still slouched down on Peter’s chest like an exhausted toddler. “So how do we make this work? I just never leave here, and we cuddle 24/7? How are we going to get this coping mechanism out into the real world? I have to see my dad at some point here.”

“Baby steps?” Peter suggests, like those aren’t the two most ridiculous words to escape his mouth in years. “We’ll work up to it. If you managed to get Scott to control his shift, I’m sure we can work out a few feet of feathers, hmm?”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says, closing his eyes again and giving Peter a good nuzzle. “Baby steps.”


	4. Chapter 4

The baby steps turn out to be quite a bit smaller than Stiles hoped for.  They go from standing still while practically glued together from chest to thigh, to sitting on the couch with Stiles straddling Peter’s lap while pointedly ignoring the fact that Stiles is literally sitting on Peter’s dick, to sleeping wrapped up in each other’s embrace.    
  
After 36 hours with no sight of Stiles’ wings, they test the theory further.    
  
“Okay so far?” Peter asks, phone glued to his ear as he gets out of the car and walks into the supermarket.  Just a quick outing, that’s what they were trying.  A few items, in and out, and Peter would be right back.    
  
“Yeah, just keep talking,” Stiles says, a hint of nervousness in his voice.  
  
“I’ll just narrate the thrilling experience of stocking up on cereal, shall I?” Peter jokes, dry as always.    
  
“Yes,” Stiles squeaks, hand flapping around as he paces the floor of Peter’s apartment.  “And the milk, don’t forget the milk.”  
  
“Of course,” Peter replies, pressing his phone against his ear with his shoulder as he gets a shopping cart.  “Can’t forget the milk.  No one likes dry Froot Loops.”    
  
Stiles suppresses a laugh at the way Peter exaggerates the pronunciation of “Froot.”  “Don’t sass me, Kujo, just tell me about the cereal.”  
  
“I’m getting two boxes of your disgusting loops of artificial coloring, and now I’m getting some almond and honey granola for myself.”  
  
“Good, good,” Stiles mutters, turning on the ball of his foot as he takes another lap around the apartment.  
  
“I don’t hear you breathing over there,” Peter points out, voice clear even over the clanging of the shopping cart.  
  
Stiles grits his teeth, but nods.  “You are such a nag.  Yes, I’m breathing.  Hear it?  Heee, hooo, heee, hooo.”  
  
“What are you, in Lamaze class?  Breathe like a normal human being.  You know it helps.”  
Stiles rolls his eyes but does as he’s told.  It really does help.  He can feel the prickling of skin fade as he takes a deep breath.  “I’m not a normal human being, and neither are you,” he says between breaths, flopping down on the couch and staring at the ceiling, forcing himself not to tap his feet.    
  
“I’m well aware,” Peter gripes in that droll lecture voice.  “It’s a figure of speech.”  
  
“You’re a figure of speech.  Were you an English teacher in a past life?  You’re having way too much fun with this, it’s weird.”  
  
“Do you want your milk, or not?” Peter asks, tone light and superior.  
  
“Yes, please.  Whole milk, I’m a growing boy.”  
  
Peter snickers into the phone, but gets a gallon of whole milk and some organic skim.  “You better not be growing any more, you’re already too tall.”  
  
“Too tall for what?” Stiles asks, licking his lips as he listens to Peter breathe.  
  
“Nothing,” Peter says quickly, turning his cart around.  “Just some greek yogurt and then we’re out of here.”  
  
“Okay,” Stiles says, exhaling slowly, unconsciously matching Peter’s breath.  “That wasn’t too bad.”  
  
“See?  No problem at all,” Peter says, piling his items on the belt and smiling absently at the cashier.  “How about we do text messaging next?  You can’t stay on the phone with me all day.”  
  
“You sure?” Stiles says, rubbing his forehead as the prickling starts to creep back in.  “We could get you a headset, you’d look super cool with a headset.  Like a really important, super well-dressed personal assistant.  ”  
  
“Texting.  Then it’s your turn to go out for groceries, and then it’s back to the real world, for you, Gabriel.”  
  
“Are we doing pet names now?” Stiles asked, a playful lilt in his voice.  “Because I don’t know if I could handle being called ‘Angel...’”  
  
“How about Tabbris?  That’s the angel of self-determination,” he suggests, taking his bags and heading for the car.    
  
“You are such a nerd, I don’t know how you’ve hidden it for this long, but I’m onto you,” Stiles teases through the car stereo as Peter drives home.  “Just wait until everyone hears about your secret love of sci-fi.”  
  
“You do that and I’ll call you Icarus for the rest of your life.”  
  
“Ooooh, it’s like that, is it?” Stiles crows and doesn’t let up his litany of terrible nicknames until Peter strides through the door with the phone still held to his ear.    
  
“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” he says coolly, putting the milk in the fridge with agitated movements.    
  
“No way, that couch is terrible.  Just because the furniture looks nice doesn’t mean you should buy it, Peter.  Couches should be comfortable.  You could like do surgery on that thing.”  
  
“I’ve got a better idea,” Peter says, smirking.  
  
“Oh no, what is that smile for?  Don’t give me that face!” Stiles squawks as Peter stalks forward toward him.    
  
“The real test!  Hiding your wings through a tickle fight!”    
  
“Don’t you dare!” Stiles screams, darting for the bedroom.  He’s far too slow though, and it’s not three seconds before Peter is diving at him and tackling him to the mattress.  Stiles tries to fight off the laughter but he can’t.  He squeaks and flails even while taunting Peter some more, yelling, “That all you got, old man?”  
  
Peter gives him hell for that comment.  Then he laughs so hard he cries.  It’s the most fun Peter has had in years and that fact is terrifying to him.  Somehow he’s become attached to a winged teenager and more shocking than that, he’s pretty sure he likes it.  

 

* * *

  
  
Another day passes mostly the same way.  Peter wakes up with Stiles plastered to his chest, slightly sweaty, but not altogether uncomfortable.  They shower and eat cereal and watch TV side by side on the couch.  Stiles’ wings make a sudden appearance when Peter spooks him accidentally in the kitchen and Peter wipes up expensive red wine and cognac while Stiles babbles apologies.    
  
It’s quiet in the bathroom when Peter gently cleans the wine off Stiles’ feathers before they stain red.  The quiet feels different from the last time they were in this position.  Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bathtub again, but the suspicion isn’t there anymore.  Somehow they have moved away from questioning Peter’s morals and toward comfortable companionship.  Peter isn’t sure why he’s fallen into the pattern so naturally.  He has a shadow following his every move, a tinny voice coming from his phone speaker everywhere he goes.  It should feel wrong, stifling somehow, but it’s been all too easy for Peter to get used to, even come to enjoy.  
  
There’s something comforting about the sound of Stiles’ breathing in his ear, the knowledge that there’s another person sharing his space.  It feels like pack used to, and Peter had almost forgotten what it was like.  It isn’t just a feeling, it’s a scent and a rhythm, something he can experience with each of his senses.  The brush of Stiles’ feather edge against his skin, the scent of his hair when they wake up in the morning, the sound of feet shuffling against the floor, the knowledge that there is another person breathing in the same air, all of these things coalesce into a vivid sense memory.  It feels like coming home and free falling off a ledge, all at once.  He can hardly wrap his mind around it, let alone put it into words.  
  
For the first time since waking from his coma, silence doesn’t feel like a death sentence.  For too long he had been trapped, kept from using his voice, but now, with Stiles of all people, he finds that he doesn’t need to speak all the time.  The quiet doesn’t scare him like it used to.  It feels natural, if not exquisite, how time seems to stretch out while he softly blotts the color from Stiles’ feathers.  He’s mesmerized by the way the liquid bleeds down the rachis of each of his feathers into the barbs and barbules in turn.  It isn’t even visible to the human eye, but Peter can feel it somehow; a vessel being filled, like water rushing through ancient aqueducts, utterly timeless.  
  
“You think you’re ready to take an outing by yourself?” Peter asks, not ready to hear the answer.    
  
He knows that their time together is winding down, and he doesn’t like it one bit.  It’s only been a few days, and already Peter is possessive and moody.  Part of him itches to toss Stiles out on his ass before it gets any worse, but a slightly larger part wants to lock him in a tower.  Peter isn’t sure if it’s protective instincts due to the pack bond or something more sinister, but regardless, it doesn’t feel quite right.  It feels like a weakness.  
  
“I don’t know, Peter,” Stiles says, head hung low.  He rolls his shoulders, wings fluttering with the movement.  Peter keeps his touch light, worried he’ll pull a feather out if his grip is too tight.  “Maybe tomorrow?  We haven’t even gotten my wings back in.  I don’t think we should push it.”  
  
“Alright,” Peter says quietly, a bubble of fearful hope rising in his chest.  He tries to keep his tone light, betraying nothing.  “You can’t stay here forever, though.  You can only hide from your father for so long, and I’m sure the rest of my nephew’s wolves are getting suspicious as well.”  
  
“I know, it’s just a lot of pressure.  It takes almost all of my concentration to keep these things hidden and I don’t even know why I’m bothering.”  
  
“You’re bothering because you have a prestigious university to attend in the fall and a whole future ahead of you, one which requires going out in public.”  
  
“I more meant my dad,” Stiles says softly.  “There’s no way he’s going to be okay with this.  I don’t want to scare him.  He doesn’t need any more stress from me.  And this,” he shrugged his shoulders, which made his wings quiver and pull out of Peter’s fingers, “this is a big, gross, heavy ball of stress.”  
  
“I think you might be underestimating your father on this particular occasion.”  
  
Stiles makes a low noise in his throat at that, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.    
  
“All I’m saying is he’s proven himself to be a capable individual,” Peter goes on, not quite sure why he’s harping on the point. Would Stiles trust him more if he pretends to have his best interests at heart?  Or does he actually have Stiles’ best interests at heart already?  Where is his heart and what is it doing?  Everything feels muddled, his senses drowned out by the thoughts bouncing around his head.

His mouth seems to move without his permission.  “I think he could handle it… if you let him.”  
  
What is he doing?  He wants Stiles on his side, but more than that, he wants Stiles to be comfortable enough to continue relying on him.  In the long run, that includes bringing the sheriff in on their secret.  A small part of him wants to keep Stiles and his wings all to himself, but that part is currently outweighed by the itching in his chest.  That sensation keeps him talking.  
  
“Tomorrow is a new day, and you’ll go out for a walk, sans wings, I’ll text you the whole time, and you’ll see that everything will be fine,” Peter practically coos.  He doesn’t even recognize his own voice.    
  
”You sound like a Hallmark card,” Stiles snickers, turning his head slightly to give Peter a fond look.  
  
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” Peter replies, heart caught in his throat.    
  
“No,” Stiles says, eyes bright and crinkled around the edges.  “It doesn’t.”

  

* * *

 

_ This is going well, isn’t it? _   
  
**If I could stab you through the phone right now, I would.**   
  
_ Is that any way to talk to your packmate, Pegasus? _   
  
**I swear to God, Peter.  If you keep pissing me off we are going to have a problem.**   
  
_ And what kind of problem would that be? _ _   
_   
**The kind where I Hulk out in an explosion of blood and feathers in the middle of the Walmart.**   
  
_ I’m sure stranger things have happened in our local Walmart.   _   
  
**That’s not the point, you psycho!**   
  
_ The fashion nightmares alone are enough to make anyone bleed from the eyes. _ _   
_   
**You are such a fucking snob.**   
  
_ You’re not wrong. _   
  
__ I’ll readily admit that I value exquisite coffee beans more than most people’s lives, but I don’t really see a problem with that.  Don’t you dare come back with any instant drinks.  I’ll flay you where you stand.

_ And don’t even think about shopping for clothes.  The smell alone would kill me and the fabric… just spare us both the pain.  Get your preferred brand of potato chips and get out of there. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Stiles?  Are you still there?   _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Stiles? _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Do you need me to come down there? _ _   
_ _   
_ _ I’m coming down there. _   
  
**Shut up, I’m picking out inferior coffee beans.**   
  
_ You can’t just stop answering like that. _   
  
**I’m fine, you big baby.**   
  
_ Don’t scare me like that.  That did not feel good. _   
  
**Having trouble controlling your shift there, big bad?**   
  
_ No.  I’m not.  This is for you.  We’re working on  _ your _  control right now. _ _   
_   
**When I get home am I going to find claw holes in the couch?**   
  
_ No. _   
  
**Really?**   
  
_ It was just one of those infernal throw pillows. _ _   
_   
**Hahaha, I knew it.**   
  
_ Do you want to do this on your own?  Because I can shut off the phone right now. _   
  
**No.  I’m sorry, it’s fine.  It’s just kind of cute that you’re worried, that’s all.**   
  
__ I’m not cute.  Don’t call me cute.   
  
**You’re a little cute.**

 


	5. Chapter 5

The next day Peter gives Stiles a ride home and promises to keep his phone on him at all times.  It’s weird that the thought of Peter being a button press away is so comforting, but he ignores the feeling.   _Whatever works_ , Stiles tells himself as he unlocks the front door and heads inside.  That’s what they agreed on when this whole thing started.  A solution to a problem.  That’s how he would think of it.  
  
Peter waits until he has locked the door behind him before pulling away.  Stiles smiles to himself wondering why it feels like he was just dropped off by a date after curfew.  
  
The house is quiet and it makes Stiles uneasy.  He’s grown used to the noise and comfort of sharing his space with someone else and the fact that that person was Peter Hale kind of sends his mind reeling.  It shouldn’t have happened so fast.  People just didn’t get attached like this so fast.  It doesn’t make any sense.  
  
Stiles goes upstairs to take a shower, but it’s not as refreshing as it should be.  The mildew on the tile looms over him in stark contrast to the sleek charcoal of Peter’s bathroom.  None of the shampoo smells quite right, and no matter how much he scrubs himself, his skin still prickles like he’s sweating.    
  
After throwing together a quick dinner of spaghetti and frozen meatballs, Stiles sits down on the couch and tries to calm himself with some television.  It works for a few minutes, but once a commercial break hits, the prickling sensation is back and a chill reaches his skin.  He drums his fingers against the coffee table and jiggles his knees, eyes flicking around the room for something to focus on.  Just when he’s about to start pacing, his phone buzzes in his pocket.  
  
_Miss me?_  
  
**Like I’d ever admit that to you.**  
  
_That wasn’t a no._  
  
**You think you’re so smart.**  
  
_I know I’m smart.  But I know you are as well._  
  
**Doesn’t feel like it right now.**  
  
_What’s the matter, Buckbeak?  Having a quarter-life crisis?_ _  
_  
**Do you really want to be making jokes about my age, old man?  That’s a game you’ll never win.  I am young and beautiful, an angel in my prime.**  
  
_I’m barely middle aged by werewolf standards.  We don’t even know what the lifespan for your kind is.  You might be on death’s door already._  
  
**Feels like it, actually.**  
  
_What’s wrong?_  
  
**Just cold.  Really cold.**  
  
_What are you wearing?_  
  
**You wanna rethink that last question, buddy?**  
  
_Don’t call me buddy.  I’m not your buddy.  And no, that was a serious question._  
  
**Pajama bottoms and a tee shirt.**    
  
_Put some socks on._ _  
_  
**How do you know I’m not wearing socks?**  
  
_Gut instinct.  Put some socks on._ _  
_  
**I’m fine.**  
  
_Now, Stiles.  Socks.  You’re still healing and you need to keep warm._ _  
_  
**God, you’re worse than my Bubby was.  Fine, I’m putting them on.**  
  
Stiles is jogging back up the stairs to dig through his drawer for a pair of his dad’s old hiking socks when he hears the front door bang open.  He startles but closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, all too pleased with himself when his wings stay hidden.  Someone is stumbling around downstairs, fumbling with the blinds and kicking their shoes off against the wall as their keys jingle, loud in the otherwise empty house.    
  
“Dad?” he calls.  “Is that you?”  
  
“Hey, kid!  Been a while, huh?” Stiles hears called back.  The cadence is off though, and Stiles knows what that means.  He’s all too familiar with that particular tone of voice, having heard it far too many times in his formative years.    
  
“Yeah, it’s me, Dad,” he says with a sigh, trudging down the stairs on still bare feet.  He wants to run back up and slip the socks on, but Peter’s voice in his head is nothing compared to the nagging feeling he gets in his gut when he knows that his dad has been drinking.  When he finally gets back to the front door he finds the sheriff, still in uniform, though the brown windbreaker is hanging off one shoulder.    
  
John shakes and twirls a bit, but can’t manage to shake the jacket off.  “I’m fine, quit fussing,” he mutters angrily when Stiles tries to pull it off for him.  “Leave it.”  
  
“Where have you been?” Stiles questions, stepping back from his father to properly close and lock the door before the neighbors get an eyeful.    
  
“Where have you been?” John shoots back, speech slowed down slightly.  It’s controlled, but Stiles can still pick it out, the strange lilt, the hint of an accent that emerges when his father has had a few too many.  “It’s been days, and you know I know that you haven’t been with Scott this whole time because I’ve seen him all over town and none of you.  So where were you?”  
  
Stiles doesn’t know what to say.  He thought they had come to an understanding.  His dad knows he’s lying, and he knows that his dad knows that he’s lying, but they’d been doing it anyway.  The lie was comforting in its own way.  It was something consistent if nothing else, and there had been so few constants in his life the last few years.    
  
Stiles tells himself that it’s just their way.  Teenagers always lie to their parents.  It’s the truthful kids that he thinks you really have to worry about.  Those people don’t even have enough affection for their parents to bother sparing them the pain of the truth.  Stiles has seen it happen, most notably with Jackson, the way the truth has been used as a weapon against the ones you love.  So he takes comfort in the lie.  It’s a lie of compassion, and that’s something he can live with.  
  
“Just with friends,” Stiles says lamely.  He’s concentrating so hard on how inappropriate that word is to describe Peter that he can’t even come up with something more convincing to follow up with.    
  
“You don’t have that many friends,” John says.  It’s blunt and bland, and it hangs in the air like the smell of cigar smoke coming off the sheriff’s jacket.  
  
There it is, Stiles thinks.  There’s the dagger of truth.  It burns sliding in, the same way it always does when his dad dismisses him.  That burn is unwelcome but familiar.  It’s the sensation that says _I don’t trust you, and I never will_.  It never burned that way when his mother was disappointed with him, and that’s like pouring lemon juice into the wound.  The change in his father since his mother’s death is the twist of the knife, cruel and harsh when death was already inevitable.  
  
“I made some new ones,” Stiles says, trying to herd his father to the couch without actually touching him.  He knows that any contact will be seen as an act of aggression, thrown off with a violent slap or worse.  
  
“Just stop it with the lies, Stiles!” John snaps, twisting under his son’s arm and back to the kitchen for a beer.  “Is there a girl?  Are you in trouble?  You look like shit.  Are you on drugs?  You’re on drugs, aren’t you?”  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Stiles yells, slamming the fridge door closed.  It wouldn’t be the first time Stiles had come home to food rotting in the open refrigerator after one of his father’s benders, and he has a vested interest in the leftover pasta he’d left in there for tomorrow.  “If anyone’s on drugs it’s you!”  
  
“You’re pale and shaking, and your eyes look bloodshot.  You’re totally strung out on something, aren’t you?  Is it coke?  Where have you been getting coke?” John all but screams, stomping through the house to the living room to violently pound the buttons on the remote until the tv shuts off.    
  
Stiles doesn’t like the insinuation of that question.  It sounds like his father is more concerned with getting the drugs off his streets than out of his kid’s system.  “I am not doing coke, okay?  Where would I even have gotten the money for drugs like that anyway?”  
  
“That’s true.  It’s not like you’ve ever had a job!”  
  
“Are you seriously going to start with me about that right now?  Please tell me you’re not on duty tonight,” Stiles says, rubbing at his forehead with one hand.  He pauses for a second to take a few deep breaths, but it doesn’t seem to be working.  The prickling sensation is starting to creep up his back and his shoulders and he knows that he needs to stop that in its tracks.  He wants to text Peter, but he left his phone upstairs on top of his dresser and doesn’t dare run for it now.  If his dad takes it and looks at his texts, the whole ruse will be over.    
  
“I’ll start with you whenever I damn well want,” John shouts, pausing only to take a gulp from the can of Miller in his fist.  “I’m not going to have you lie to my face in my own house!”  
  
“I’m not lying, Dad.  I just need a minute,” Stiles begs, a ragged breath escaping his chest as he struggles to exhale slowly and steadily.  He knew he should have stayed with Peter longer.  He isn’t ready for this yet.  “Can we talk about this later?  I just…” he trails off, scratching at his arms as he sprints up the stairs, barely making the turn before his shirt starts to rip and his wings start to emerge.  Stiles doesn’t have time to think, let alone grab his phone.  It’s all he can do to dive into the bathroom and flick the lock before the pain rips through him as his skin tears violently like the first time.    
  
“Don’t you walk away from me, Stiles!” he hears his dad yell, heavy footsteps banging on the stairs.  “We are not done talking about this!”  
  
Stiles can’t catch his breath, the pain is unbearable and there are tears escaping his eyes already, falling without pause.  He wants to argue, to explain, but he can’t get anything out.  The air that comes out of his mouth is thin and almost whistles as it fails him.    
  
“You unlock this door right this instant!” John shouts through the door, rattling the wood as he tries the lock.  “I swear to God, Stiles, this is completely unacceptable!”  
  
“Stop!  Please, just…” He struggles, but manages to get a few words out before he falls to his knees panting.  The pain courses through him and Stiles is sure he can feel every individual broken feather, every drop of blood that drips from his torn back.  He thought he was done with this.  They had been coming out clean with Peter, startling, but easy.  This was all wrong.  He never should have left.  Coming home had been a bad idea.  
  
“Stiles?” John asks, voice just a little softer this time.  “What’s going on?  Stiles?” he asks again, knocking on the door like the noise will help somehow.    
  
“Dad?” he breathes, hunched over on the floor on his elbows, wings folded behind him.  “I need help.”  It’s soft, but that’s as much as Stiles can manage.    
  
“If you need help, all you have to do is ask, son,” John slurs, reminding Stiles that he’s still completely wasted, no matter how much he’s trying to turn their interaction around.  “It is drugs, isn’t it?  We can get you help…  Ah Christ, Stiles, we can get you into rehab or something.  I’ll call Melissa.”  
  
“I don’t need Melissa.”  He’s whimpering now, the pain overwhelming him as he starts to shake with it.  “Can you call someone else for me?”  He can’t go to the hospital right now.  Pain meds wouldn’t put a dent in this even if he could get his wings back under control.  There’s only one person on the planet that knows what to do, and he hates that he has to let his dad see it, but he needs the help.  
  
“You need Scott?”  John asks, still not understanding.  “What kind of problem is this?  Anxiety attack?  You have a werewolf problem?  You got bit, didn’t you?  I thought you didn’t want the bite.  Didn’t I tell you boys to be careful?”  
  
“No, Dad,” Stiles mutters.  “I’m not a… it’s not a werewolf problem.”  He’s not even sure how his dad can hear him through the door, but there’s no way he can get up to unlock the door, so he does his best.  “Get my phone?”  
  
“Where is it?” John asks, voice sobering.  Stiles huffs out a breath, half glad, but half frustrated.  Trust his dad to shake off the drink in case of an emergency now.  He definitely couldn’t do that when Stiles was a kid.  He never got it together when it really counted.  
  
“Dresser,” Stiles chokes out, pounding a fist on the floor.  It slides there, not making the sound he was hoping for, instead slipping in a puddle of syrupy blood.  He swallows hard, determined not to make a pained noise.  His father shouldn’t hear him like this, shouldn’t see him broken.  
  
“Okay, got it.  Who am I calling?” he asks, right outside the door again.    
  
“Just double tap the send button,” Stiles said, tilting his head toward the ceiling, eyes shut tight.  
  
“I need the password.  I can’t open this thing, Stiles!”  
  
Stiles screams.  Nothing is working and everything hurts.    
  
“Hey kid, it’s okay, it’s gonna be fine, just tell me the numbers,” John pleads from the other side of the door.  
  
“4-3-7-3-4-1,” Stiles says slowly, not wanting to have to do it twice.    
  
“Got it, got it, calling now.  Who is this?  Who is Mr. Evil Goatee?”  
  
Stiles groans.  He forgot what he had named Peter in his phone, but supposes it isn’t as bad as it could have been.  
  
“Hello?  Who is this?  Peter?  Something’s happened to Stiles, he says he needs you to come over.  Would you mind explaining to me why my 18-year-old son needs you for some crisis in my bathroom right now?” John goes on, voice rising, accent returning.  
  
“Dad, just… stop,” Stiles grumbles, feathers beginning to twitch in aggravation.  A few shake free, fluttering down to the floor to stick in the puddle he’s kneeling in.  He winces, knowing how long it took for those feathers to grow back in the first place, how much it hurt and how long he had to stay in bed with Peter’s hand running up his calf.    
  
“What the hell?” John shouts a few minutes later.  “How long have you been coming in this window?”  
  
“First time for everything,” Stiles hears Peter say, voice coming closer with every step.  “Stiles, you alright?  Can you open the door?”  
  
“No,” he groans, desperate for a little relief.  “Of course I’m not alright.  I’m fucking terrible.  Get your furry ass in here!”  
  
“Sheriff, you’re not emotionally attached to this doorknob are you?”  Without waiting for an answer, Peter twists the knob so hard the lock breaks apart, steps inside, and closes the door behind him, wedging it shut.  
  
“Took you long enough,” Stiles groans, back still turned to Peter.    
  
“Two minutes was too long?  It was literally two minutes, you baby,” Peter says, rushing forward to take Stiles’ wrist and pull his pain away.  It’s worse than the last time, because this time it’s not a shock.  Peter knows exactly what’s happening and how much it’s hurting Stiles.  He can smell the alcohol wafting off the sheriff and can count how many feathers are on the floor.  Peter knows what each of those lost feathers means, and it hurts him more than the pain rushing up his veins.    
  
“Did he hit you?  Hurt you?” Peter whispers into Stiles’ ear, completely ignoring the indignant knocking and shouting coming from the sheriff.    
  
“No, he was just drunk and yelling and I lost it,” Stiles admits, slumping against Peter’s shoulder as the relief knocks him over.  “He doesn’t know.”  
  
“Well he’s about to,” Peter says softly, turning to the door as John shoulders it open.    
  
“What the hell is going on in here?” John asks, eyes going wide as he takes in the scene before him.  There’s enough blood and feathers in between him and Stiles that John still can’t figure out what he’s looking at.  “Have you been killing chickens in here?  That’s messed up.  Is this a magic thing?”  
  
“I’m going to have to ask you to step outside,” Peter says, as respectfully as possible.  “Stiles is hurt and I need some supplies.  Can you handle that?” he asks, hoping giving John a job will move things along.  
  
“If he’s hurt we can take him to a doctor,” John argues, rubbing his eyes.  “I don’t understand what’s happening.  Is that his blood?”  
  
“What’s happening is, you’re going to calmly and rationally listen to me and do as I say.  Look with your eyes and listen with your ears.  Stiles seems to be going through some changes.  Specifically, he has developed wings that are cumbersome and painful.  He needs some first aid, but he can’t go to a doctor.  No, we don’t know why, and no, I didn’t do anything to him.  Understood?”  
  
John stands there, struck dumb, not only by what he sees but by the way Peter Hale is lecturing him on parenting.  “Is that true, son?” he asks, voice cracking on the last word.    
  
“Yes…” Stiles sighs, craning his neck around to look his dad in the eye.  “Do as he says, please.”  
  
“Fine.  But you are explaining this later,” John says heavily, eyes still darting around the room as he takes it all in.  “What do you need?” he asks as his eyes settle on the pool of blood his son is kneeling in.  He can see the stark black lines moving up Peter’s arm and knows how serious the situation is.    
  
“Ice water, towels, dish soap, and cotton balls if you have any,” Peter rattles off, not taking his eyes off of Stiles.    
  
The sheriff stands there, unmoving, staring at them.  Peter can feel his gaze on their backs.  It’s cold and calculating, like the gears in his mind are stuck, unable to keep the machine running.  He tries to shrug off the disapproving sensation, rolling his shoulders and reaching to right a twisted feather, but it doesn’t abate.  As far as he’s concerned, he’s not doing anything wrong.  It’s the sheriff that’s drunk and disorderly, and not bothering to support his son in a time of need.  If he needs to leap through an open window and take matters into his own hands, so be it.    
  
“Sheriff?  Now?” he orders, not eager to lift Stiles up in his arms with his father watching.    
  
“Yeah… yeah,” the man says, shaking his head and ducking down the stairs.    
  
“That went well,” Peter jokes, running a hand through Stiles’ sweaty hair.  “Let me get you to bed.”  Crouching down and lifting gently, Peter gets Stiles off the floor and onto his bed, face down.  His wings are still folded, disheveled and bleeding sluggishly from the broken rachises and wounds on his back.  “Hold tight for a second,” he says as he grabs the bedframe and pulls it away from the walls.  He needs enough space to spread his wings and not smack into anything.    
  
“He’s gonna be so mad,” Stiles moans, prompting Peter to get both hands on his skin again.    
  
“I’ll talk to him.  Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s going to help,” Stiles says, turning his head until he can catch Peter out of the corner of his eye.  “He doesn’t like you.”  
  
“That’s never stopped me before.  No one likes me.”  
  
“I like you,” Stiles says softly, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.  
  
“Well that’s nice,” Peter says, willing his eyes to stay dry.  There’s so much pain though, he finds it difficult to keep it together.  It’s obvious the moment Stiles drifts off to sleep.  His body relaxes and melts into Peter’s hands like warm dough.    
  
He hears John on the stairs then and is almost grateful for the interruption.  It gives him an excuse to stop watching Stiles sleep.  He’s balancing a full bowl of ice water in the crook of his arm and carrying a stack of kitchen towels and rubber gloves.    
  
“Thank you,” Peter says readily, gesturing to the desk for John to put the supplies down.  He fumbles it a little bit, and Peter changes his tune.  “Maybe it’s time you go to bed.  We can discuss this in the morning.”  
  
“We can discuss this in the morning?” John parrots back, outraged.  “Where do you get off telling me anything about my son?  Or telling me to go to bed in my own house?  What are you even doing here?”  
  
“You’ve been drinking, and you upset Stiles, and that’s why his wings emerged, and that’s why he’s hurting.  So can you understand why I’d like you to go away right now?” Peter asks, reaching for a towel and dipping it in the ice water.    
  
“Why do you care?  What is your role here?” John asks, anger growing.    
  
“Stiles has been staying with me the last few days.  I’ve been helping him get his wings under control,” he explains, seeing the sheriff’s chest puff out like he’s going to interrupt.  “It’s something we learn as kids… but when a wolf is bitten, like Scott, Stiles had to teach him how to anchor himself.  That’s all I was trying to do.  We researched winged magical creatures, but couldn’t find anything concrete, obviously.  We’ve been flying blind, you could say.  Though he’s nowhere near flying.  It was just gaining control, learning how to keep the wings hidden.”  
  
“He’s been staying with you?  For days?” John asks, still caught up on the first thing Peter said.  
  
“Nothing’s going on.  I’ve done nothing for him that you couldn’t have done, nothing to him that you wouldn’t have done.  Apart from this, at least,” he adds, gesturing to the black veins still pulsing in one arm.  “And maybe it should have been you, caring for him like that.  But he didn’t want to worry you.”  
  
The sheriff rolls his eyes and purses his lips—now Peter sees where Stiles gets it from—and takes a deep breath.  
  
Peter interrupts before he can even start speaking.  “If you’re going to yell at me… do it quietly.  He’s sleeping and he needs to sleep to heal.  The wings can’t go away until they’re healed.  That’s how this works.”    
  
“I can’t believe you’re lecturing me about my son right now.”  
  
“I can’t believe you’re drunk right now!” Peter hisses at him.  “He was doing fine until you started yelling at him!”  
  
“Well, I was off work and he was supposed to be out with Scott.”  
  
“You knew he wasn’t out with Scott and you know that’s no excuse.  I’m not about to tell a grown man how to live his life, but you have a kid here to think about,” Peter says, not making eye contact.  He does the best he can to clean Stiles’ wounds with the ice water while keeping one hand on Stiles’ wrist.  Not only can he pull the pain from his skin, but he can feel his packmate’s pulse against his fingertips.    
  
“Why do you care?  Are you… seeing each other?” John asks, eyebrows shooting upward.  “He’s eighteen!”  
  
“We’re not dating, we’re just in the same pack.  That comes with a certain amount of familiarity,” Peter says, massaging the blood out of Stiles’ matted feathers.  He’s not lying, but he’s also not giving the sheriff all the details.  Anything more feels like a betrayal of Stiles’ trust.    
  
“Pack is family to you wolves, right?” John asks, peering suspiciously at the way Peter’s fingers flit delicately over his son’s feathers.  Feathers.  He can barely believe it.  Stiles was supposed to be the human of the pack.  Sure, he’d never be normal, never had been, but he wasn’t supposed to be supernatural.    
  
Even so, something about the wings feels inevitable, like he has been waiting for the other shoe to drop for years… since Claudia died and he was left alone with an unruly child.  It had never been easy, raising Stiles alone, and yet this feels like even more of a failure.  Maybe if John had been a better father, none of this would have happened.  Maybe Stiles wouldn’t have gone out in the woods and Scott wouldn’t have gotten bit by a werewolf and Stiles wouldn’t have wings right now.  He could have done more.  He should have done more.    
  
“Yes,” Peter confirms easily, still working steadily on setting Stiles’ feathers to rights.  “Stiles is family now.  I’m more fond of him than Derek, truth be told,” he adds, chuckling softly to himself.  
  
“Wings though… why wings?” John muses, settling into the rhythm of watching Peter’s fingers work.  “Nothing happened to him?  Not a spell or a bite or… anything?”   _Anything I could have stopped_ , John wants to ask but refrains.  He’s not going to have a discussion about where he went wrong as a parent with Peter Hale while the man carefully tends his son’s broken feathers.    
  
“Your guess is as good as ours.  I just noticed he was sick and smelling off and a few weeks later, wings appeared.  That doesn’t ring any bells to you, does it?” he asks.  “This type of thing could be hereditary.  It is with wolves anyway.”    
  
“You’re asking if I ever noticed any relatives sprout wings?  Yeah, I don’t think so,” John says, rubbing his forehead.  “I think that’s something that would have come up at Christmas, you know, ‘angels we have heard on high’ and all that.”  
  
Peter chuckles softly at that, but John continues turning it over in his mind.  Wings, angels, the X-men, anything that could remotely apply to what is happening with his son right now.  He gets stuck somewhere, replaying a long forgotten conversation he had had with Claudia during one of her episodes.    
  
“Claudia… she said something once…” he trails off, trying to put the pieces back together.  He had been so frustrated with her that day.  It wasn’t her fault when she couldn’t remember something or got confused, but that almost made it worse.  You weren’t allowed to be mad at someone who couldn’t help it.  But it was hard to handle someone who was agitated and wouldn’t stop talking nonsense.    
  
“About what?” Peter prompts, eyes fixated on Stiles as he dabs at the wounds on his back with some gauze.    
  
“She was babbling once, on one of her bad days.  She was so out of it.  Didn’t recognize me or Stiles.  I sent him to the cafeteria she was so bad,” John says, closing his eyes as he draws upon his memory.  This would be easier if he were sober.  “She kept swatting at me, damn near knocked Stiles off his feet, going on and on about how she could have learned to fly.  She said if it weren’t for me she could have flown.  She blamed me for it, started crying about how she’d been grounded because of me.  I had no idea what she was saying.  The doctors had to sedate her when she started throwing things.”  
  
“She said she could fly?” Peter asks, eyes flicking from John back to the curve of Stiles’ shoulder.  There are freckles all over, a light brown almost exactly matching his wings.  He imagines what they would look like spread out in flight, gliding through the sky.  Peter can’t think of anything more thrilling.    
  
“Well, yeah, but she wasn’t herself.  She spoke in gibberish all the time toward the end there.  I didn’t think it meant anything.  It was so hard to watch, so hard to listen to, we had to learn how to tune it out,” John says, eyes falling to Stiles’ wings as well.    
  
“Illness…” Peter says, lips twisting into a frown.  “Especially the memory disorders… they reveal a lot of secrets.  Maybe she wasn’t hallucinating.  Maybe she was trying to tell you something.”  
  
“I think it would have been pretty obvious if my wife had angel wings.  We were married for 15 years,” John protests.

“Not if she was hiding them,” Peter says, seeming to finish up with Stiles’ feathers, washing his hands in the ice water one at a time, always keeping a healing hand on Stiles’ skin.  “Stiles’ anchor is comfort, but if she had a different one, one that was really solid, maybe she never slipped up like this,” he says raising Stiles’ hand in his.  They’re clasped together firmly, even though Stiles is dead asleep.    
  
John thinks about that for a moment, blinking through the fog in his mind.  He supposes it’s possible.  Claudia never hinted that she had any secrets from him, but if it was a secret, and she kept it well, how would he have known?  He lets that sink in for a minute while he watches the delicate way Peter interacts with Stiles.    
  
He doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but there is clearly affection there.  Peter brings Stiles’ hand up to his face and presses his lips to the knuckles.  It makes something strange happen in his stomach, seeing the intimacy there.  It’s stark and unhindered, like Peter isn’t ashamed of it.  John doesn’t know what to do with that information.  Peter had said they were just pack, but that doesn’t look like typical pack behavior to John.  He’s going to want to have a conversation about that with Stiles when he wakes up, but for now, he can’t help but be happy Peter is there, taking his son’s pain.  
  
“Maybe Stiles remembers something.  Maybe Claudia told him stories.  I wasn’t always around when she was in the hospital.  He used to go there after school and do his homework in her room.  Maybe I missed something,” John says, clasped hands covering his mouth as he hunches over his knees.  He had done a pretty good job of keeping those memories locked up tight, buried deep in his subconscious.  It’s only when he’s drinking that they really come out.  When his guard is down, he can feel it, the pain of it, how she looked when she was dying, how she struck him.  It took many more drinks than this to silence his demons, and he had already cut himself off for the evening.  Or Peter Hale had, one or the other.  Suddenly he’s very happy that Stiles is passed out, unable to see him like this.  
  
“If Stiles remembered something, he would have mentioned it already.  We’ve been researching this for days,” Peter says, free hand going to Stiles’ wings, gently stroking down his feathers.  The way Peter looks at his son is startling.  There is so much intensity there, so much control.  He strokes Stiles’ wings not the idle way you would stroke a pet, but like it is vital to his continued existence.  John doesn’t know what to say next, so he just keeps staring.    
  
Several minutes pass and John is still dumbfounded.  Peter has gone from stroking Stiles’ wings to combing through his hair with his fingers.  The intensity is still written all over his face, but now it’s fractured.  Peter’s lips are pressed hard against Stiles’ hand and the black tendrils are now not only running up his flexed forearm but scattering across his cheek.  His jaw is tight but determined.  Peter Hale is kissing the pain out of his son, and he doesn’t look like he would stop for anything.  His face looks shattered like glass, thin little tendrils trailing up his neck and to his hairline.      
  
They stay like that for a while.  After a few more minutes, Peter closes his eyes.  With that subtle change, all the air in the room seems to rush out through the still open window.  John can’t help but hold his breath as he watches.  It feels intrusive.  Peter had said that he hadn’t done anything for Stiles that a father couldn’t have done… but this?  This isn’t familial affection.  He wants to rage at Peter, demand to know how long this has been going on, how far things have gotten, how deeply in trouble his son is with a man nearly twice his age, but he can’t find the breath to do so.    
  
There’s a tenderness in Peter’s face that’s absolutely shocking.  John really didn’t think the wolf had that kind of feeling in him.  From what little of the man he knows, he could give Stiles a run for his money when it comes to sarcasm and cutting wit.  Maybe that’s how this happened.  Maybe… but again, it looks like more than mutual rancor.  John can’t wrap his head around it, and it’s starting to worry him more than he’d like.  If it were just sex, he’d be able to kick and scream and split them up easily, but what’s worse than the possible sex is the simple fact that John believes Peter when he says they haven’t been having any.  Just sex he could handle, but that look on Peter’s face?  That John cannot bear to witness for much longer.  
  
As soon as the thought enters his mind, it’s pushed out by what starts happening in front of his eyes.  Peter’s lips twist into a sad semblance of a smile a split second before Stiles’ wings appear to recede.  It happens slowly, and John tracks every second of it closely, watching as they seem to sink into Stiles from the base to the tip.    
  
“Uh…” he says dumbly, in too much awe to put a sentence together.    
  
“It took days for that to happen the first time.  I guess he isn’t as bad off this time around,” Peter narrates, eyes open but still on Stiles.  “I thought it would take longer.  Maybe he’s getting a better handle on it.  Last time we had to wait until all of his feathers grew back to even try hiding them.”  
  
“You’ve really been helping him,” John says.  He means it to be a question, but it comes out as a plain observation.  “I guess I should say thank you.”  
  
“It’s not something that requires thanks,” Peter says just as easily, reaching to stroke Stiles’ back before catching John’s eye and thinking better of it.  “Pack cares for pack.”  
  
“And he’s just pack.  Like the rest of them?” John asks, voice tinged with hopeful optimism.  He already knows the answer.  It’s clear as day, but he listens to Peter deny it anyway.  He listens very carefully to Peter’s inflection.  The delivery will tell him more than the vocabulary ever could.

“Of course,” Peter replies easily, a false smile splashed across his face.  It’s like he’s not even trying to hide his emotions anymore.  John can’t decide if that makes the situation better or worse.  “I have to stay here,” Peter adds, pointing at the hand that is still pulling pain from Stiles’ arm.  “He needs rest.  Do you have an extra blanket?”  
  
John nods slowly, eyes squinted.  He goes to the hall closet and gets a down comforter and a pillow.  He expects Peter to make a bed for himself on the floor, while mentally preparing himself for the possibility that Peter will lay down next to his son in bed instead.  Surprising him once again, Peter takes the blanket with one hand and carefully unfolds it on top of Stiles, tucking it in around him everywhere he can reach.  John helps when it’s clear Peter can’t get to his feet.    
  
“The healing takes a lot out of him.  His body temperature has been dropping.  If you could turn your heat on too, that would help,” Peter says, even though it’s June.  He waits until Stiles is snug, only his hair and ears visible out the top of the blanket, before taking a seat on the floor.  John watches in silence as he folds the pillow in half and wedges it between his head and the side of the mattress.  His arm is above his head, hand still clasped tight around Stiles’.  John’s arm burns in sympathy at the uncomfortable position, sure he couldn’t possibly sleep like that.  
  
“Do you need anything else?” John asks, at a loss for what to do.  It feels odd to be offering hospitality to Peter Hale, offering to set up a bed for him in his son’s room, but there’s nothing to be done for it.    
  
“No, thank you,” Peter says, resting his head as close to Stiles as possible.  John has to look away.  It’s too much.  He can’t bear how dear it all looks, Peter nursing Stiles through the night by his bedside.  “Goodnight, Sheriff.”  
  
“John is fine,” he says, before taking his leave.  He closes the window and the door behind him, leaving his son in a makeshift den with a wolf.


	6. Chapter 6

John makes coffee on autopilot.  He calls out from work, scared by how raw his own voice sounds on the phone.  It’s hard to remember the last time he bothered taking a sick day.  It must have been after the night he spent in the Nemeton with Melissa and Chris Argent.  His mind races as he tries to reconcile everything that he’s seen in the last few years with the Hale pack and what he now knows about Stiles, and in turn, what must be true of his late wife.  There’s still a huge disconnect there that he doesn’t know how to string together.  
  
Claudia had told him.  He hadn’t believed her, had thought it was the dementia.  She had said she had wings once, that they were beautiful but terrible, that flying was the best feeling in the world, but she also hated it.  In a slurred bout of mania she had said that she missed it but couldn’t bear to do it anymore.  He thought it had all been crazy rambling, hallucinations, but clearly, he hadn’t had the whole story.  John can’t believe Peter is right about this.  It isn’t fair that Peter gets to be the one to school him on the ins and outs of memory loss.  
  
Peter’s words from the night before echo in his mind; _memory disorders… they reveal a lot of secrets_. Objectively, John knew that.  He had read plenty on the subject when it became clear that dementia was slowly stealing his wife from him, stealing Stiles’ mother.  He’d heard stories about dementia patients airing all of the family’s dirty laundry, or children learning things they never knew about their parents’ past, but somehow he’d assumed he’d been immune to that.    
  
If only he had actually listened when Claudia had been babbling.  If he’d tuned in instead of tuning out, maybe none of this would be happening right now.  John knows that he only did what he had to to survive Claudia’s illness, but it doesn’t stop him from being furious with himself.  The truth was sitting right there in front of him and he hadn’t responded.    
  
It was just like Stiles had said when he tried to explain the Darach’s sacrifices; _Mom would have believed me_.  Claudia had been doing the same thing, explaining the unexplainable, and he just hadn’t believed.  He almost still doesn’t want to believe it, even though he’s now seen it with his own two eyes.  Claudia must have had wings though because now Stiles did.  That is a fact.  A frankly unbelievable fact, but a fact nonetheless.    
  
John reminds himself that he’s a detective and has to work with the information in front of him.  Just because it doesn’t make sense yet, didn’t mean it isn’t true.  He thinks back and puts together as many pieces as he can, still getting frustrated with how lost he is in the world of the supernatural.  It had been her past she had been speaking of, not fiction.

John doesn’t know how he missed it, how he hadn’t known.  He wonders if anyone had known at all.  Had she lost her wings somehow, or was she just hiding them?  There’s so much he wishes he knew, things he wishes he could tell Stiles.  Now Stiles is hurt, and he’s impotent.  He doesn’t have any information; he can’t possibly parent Stiles through this.  It’s a whole different world for John, one he has only been tangentially related to until now.

He doesn’t want to, but he starts theorizing that Claudia’s illness was never clinical at all.  Frontotemporal dementia is genetic.  It’s always been possible that Stiles would succumb to it as well, but this seems all the more likely.  Even without any evidence, John is suddenly sure that Claudia’s wings had been what killed her.  If that’s true, they could kill Stiles too.  
  
For half a second he wishes he had left Beacon Hills when Claudia died, as he’d been tempted to do.  He knows it wouldn’t have made any difference.  You can’t outrun your ghosts any more than you can outrun genetics.  Stiles has been doomed from the start, just in a different way than he ever could have expected.    
  
Pulling himself back, John circles back to his only valid hypothesis.  Claudia had magical ancestry.  It’s the only reasonable answer to the puzzle; now he just needs to find evidence, witnesses, a paper trail.  He needs to build a case.  Just as he starts mentally cataloging all of Claudia’s things that are still in his possession, there’s a tread on the stairs.    
  
“Good morning,” he says to a bleary-eyed Peter.  The man looks awful.  He massages the crick in his neck as he descends the stairs, mouth set in a grimace.  John goes for a second coffee cup without even asking.  25 years in the county’s service has taught him how to spot an officer in need of caffeine from a mile away.    
  
“Thank you,” Peter says softly before taking the cup.  “You don’t have a shift today?” he asks mildly, neither accusatory or curious.  John doesn’t know what to make of his tone.  Usually, he’s good at reading people, but Peter Hale is perplexing.    
  
“I cleared my schedule for… “ He can’t think of a word for it.  What do you call something like this?  A dilemma?  An emergency?  Whatever it is, John thinks it deserves his full attention.  “This,” he finishes lamely.    
  
Peter nods and sips from his cup.  He takes a deep breath, expression betraying nothing.  Nevertheless, John can see the exhaustion on his face, the bone-deep kind that’s difficult to hide.    
  
John surveys him, but the man doesn’t speak again.  He’s unused to the quiet.  John is not a man who people ignore.  That’s partly due to his title, but still, he thinks it also has something to do with his general demeanor.  He likes to think he has something of a competent air that demands attention.  It’s a vain thought, but he clings to it regardless.  
  
“I’m going to go through Claudia’s things, see if there’s anything to go on,” he says finally, feeling like the silence will go on forever if he doesn’t break it.    
  
Peter nods again before asking, “Anything here I can bring Stiles for breakfast?  I’m sure he’ll be hungry when he wakes up.”  
  
“Make yourself at home,” John says, though it feels absurd coming out of his mouth.  Peter Hale, in his home, feeling at home?  It’s strange to offer comfort to this man, who he really needn't have a relationship with.  It’s the stilted feeling of offering a hollow favor to a mere acquaintance who inexplicably takes you up on it, forcedly polite.  John knows nothing happened, and yet it still feels like an awkward morning after with your kid’s significant other.

Peter nods again and opens the refrigerator, reaching for the gallon of milk.  Figuring a grown man can manage cereal or scrambled eggs, John heads upstairs and into the spare bedroom.    
  
The air feels stale and dry.  He should really open the windows every once in a while, but Claudia’s old sewing room mostly houses boxes.  There’s a camp cot in here, but they never have any guests.  It’s been folded and leaning against the wall for at least five years.    
  
John goes to the sliding closet door and pulls on it quickly like it will hurt less if he doesn’t think about it.  There is nothing to savor here.  He approaches the situation clinically, like a crime scene, practically ransacking the closet as he searches for anything that might be relevant.  He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for.  What should he expect to find?  A shirt with wing holes cut in it?  A call sheet titled “wing club phone tree?”  
  
It’s been 10 years since he shoved these things in the closet, and while he doesn’t know when he was expecting to go through them, he never thought it would be like this.  John thought he would be over it one day.  Maybe he and Stiles would have done this together, laughing and reminiscing, sharing stories about Claudia like it was only bittersweet and not paralyzing to touch the papers that she had touched and smell the clothes that she had worn.    
  
He forces himself to power though, quickly and efficiently.  He’s gathering data, not taking a stroll down memory lane.  There’s a box of cards and letters that he skims, but they’re all from old friends, Stiles, or himself.  There’s not a diary in sight, nothing written in Claudia’s own hand, nothing from a relative of hers.  When he’s finished flipping through the last box, he stops, sitting in a circle surrounded by bits of Claudia’s life, and wills himself not to cry.  John doesn’t have time to let this touch him, he’s got more important things to do.  He has to help his son.    
  
Taking a deep breath, he hurriedly packs everything back up, stacking the boxes neatly, and sliding the closet door shut.  He spares a glance for Claudia’s sewing machine, thinks about how she’d made Stiles’ Halloween costumes every year, whatever he wanted, even if it was Mrs. Pacman or a box of California raisins, and then pulls the door firmly behind him.  He can hear Stiles and Peter’s muffled voices from the other room and takes a minute to breathe with his back against the door before going to tell them the bad news.

 

* * *

  
  
It’s been three days and Peter Hale is still practically living in John’s house.  Stiles took a day to recover from John’s first glimpse of his wings, but then a deputy knocking on the door asking if the sheriff needed anything had them visible again.  It seems to John that even if Stiles were in good health, anxiety can still prevent him from hiding his wings.  Peter left for a harrowing half-hour to gather clothes and toiletries from his apartment, every minute of which Stiles spent pacing with his phone glued to his ear, babbling.  All the blinds are pulled shut and John has to knock on his own door to be allowed inside because the uncertainty of his future has Stiles’ wings present nearly half the time.  At this rate, John isn’t sure Stiles will be making it to Stanford in two months’ time.    
  
John returns to work, but comes home to Peter Hale whipping up dinner in his small kitchen, speaking patiently with Stiles as they go over theory upon theory, exhausting every avenue.  It’s surreal, John decides, how Peter’s presence isn’t more concerning.  They really don’t seem to be doing anything besides bickering.  There’s been nothing in the way of romantic touches between Stiles and this man.  The hand Peter sometimes lays on Stiles to still his tapping fingers seems exasperated.  The touches are perhaps a bit fond, but not sexual, and yet the domesticity of it is irksome to John.    
  
He spends his afternoon avoiding home by calling on as many of Claudia’s friends are still in the area, asking vague questions and surveying whatever mementos of her they still possess.  It isn’t until he exhausts those witnesses that he thinks to visit the hospital.  Melissa had been new at the hospital when Claudia was sick and working in a different wing, but as Scott befriended Stiles almost immediately when they moved to town, she stopped by often to check in on them.  
  
Stopping for a bribe on the way, John trudges through the nurse’s station on the third floor with a coffee carrier and bag of pastries.  “I need to borrow Melissa for a few minutes,” he says to the charge nurse, handing her a cup.    
  
“You got a double chocolate muffin in there?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.    
  
“Of course I do,” John replies, peeking in a bag before handing it to her.    
  
“Then go right ahead,” she says, giving a wicked smile.  “Change the sheets on the bed if you’re going to use a patient room.”  
  
“It’s police business, Stacey,” John says, standing up tall and putting his hands on his hips, which serves the dual purpose of making him look imposing and showing off his badge, gun, and radio.  
  
“Of course it is, Sheriff,” Stacey says, pulling a few snickers from the other nurses.  “She’s down wing C.”  
  
John scurries off before anyone else can make any comments, snagging Melissa’s drink on the way.  He finds her checking a patient’s IV and waits outside for a few minutes before she emerges from the room.    
  
“Oh, thank you,” she says, gratefully taking the cup.  “It’s been such a long day.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” John says, scratching at his hair as he thinks of the right way to word his question.  He doesn’t want Melissa to have to keep a secret from her son, but Stiles had made it perfectly clear he didn’t want the pack to know about his predicament.    
  
“You know Stiles does that all the time, right?” Melissa says fondly, smiling after she takes a sip from her cup.  “He’s just like you.  It’s unbelievable sometimes.”  
  
“I think he’s more like his mother, personally,” John says softly, knowing that would be the perfect segue but having trouble taking it.  His words catch in his throat and Melissa looks at him skeptically.  
  
“What are you here for?  You don’t need me to break into the morgue again, do you?  Because if it’s always going to be the morgue, I’m going to start requesting cheeseburgers as payment.  Coffee isn’t going to cut it anymore,” she says, in that scolding but somewhat sarcastic tone that John is so fond of.    
  
“I have some news, actually,” John says, thinking of Melissa’s medical training and how cool and collected she can be in an emergency.  “The kind of news that we never would have believed a few years ago.  You know?  That kind of news?”  
  
“Is it Stiles? Or you?” she asks, eyes softening as she tilted her head and looked deep into John’s eyes.  
  
“It’s Stiles.”  
  
“Tell me everything.”  
  
John does tell her everything.  It takes much less time than he expects.  It isn’t easy to explain something that should really be seen with your own eyes, something that by any rights has no reason to exist, so he barely even tries.  He uses only a few words to describe Stiles’ wings and how he is having trouble controlling them, how Peter Hale, of all people, has been helping him find his anchor.  He purposefully leaves out how close Peter and Stiles seem to be, how they speak to one another, how they touch, how it worries him.  There definitely aren’t any words John could use to explain the dynamic between them.  He barely understands it himself.    
  
What he really ends up focusing on is how he has been searching for anything that would indicate that Claudia had wings as well.  He’s been all over town and through the closet in the spare room and still hasn’t come up with anything useful.    
  
“I think I have something for you,” Melissa says, voice somewhat breathy with nerves.  John does his best to soften his expression.  “You were so busy with Stiles and the funeral that you didn’t come back to get everything that was in Claudia’s room afterward.  I couldn’t stand to see a bag of her things in the lost and found, so I took it home.  I just never knew how to bring it up.  I didn’t know if you’d want them or not.”  
  
John swallows hard.  He’s grateful, but doesn’t know how to express it.    
  
“There was a notebook,” she goes on.  It comforts him that she knows when to carry him along, probably more than it should.  Ever since Raf left, Melissa has always been in control.  He’s sure she doesn’t always feel like it, but John has always admired the way she can take a deep breath and deal with her own problems, and Scott’s supernatural ones without breaking a sweat.    
  
“It read like a story.  I actually considered having it edited and framed as a novel, as a tribute to her.  But I could never bring myself to ask you for your permission.  I didn’t think for a second it could have been real… haven’t really thought about it in years, actually.  So much has happened since then.”  
  
At that, John almost chokes.  He takes a sip of coffee to hide his distress but knows he isn’t fooling her.  

“I’ll bring the box by after my shift, alright?” she asks, placing a soft hand on his arm.  She looks through him then, brow furrowed in concern.  John can barely stand to meet her eyes.    
  
“Yes,” he manages, struggling to swallow again.  It shouldn’t hurt so much, that she knows more about his late wife than he does.  It shouldn’t feel so hollow in his chest, learning something new after all these years, but it does.  John feels lied to, deceived, and worst of all, he feels upset with Melissa, who did nothing wrong but deliver upsetting news.    
  
“I’ll be there by 7,” she says, squeezing down on his arm.    
  
“We’ll be there.  Peter will make dinner, I’m sure,” John says with a strange twist of the lips.  A week ago, that thought would never have crossed his mind.  It’s funny how quickly things change.  

 

* * *

  
To say dinner is tense would be an understatement.  It’s odd to sit in a room with a werewolf when three people are clearly hiding something.  John knows Peter knows something is up, so they very pointedly don’t lie.  They don’t reveal any information about why Melissa is there or why their conversation stalls mid-sentence every so often.  Every time Stiles meets his eyes, they look away abruptly.  It’s clear that they’re not fooling Peter, but the wolf seems too polite to say anything while he is a guest in the Stilinski home.  With Stiles’ wings healed, it’s obvious there is little reason for him to stay, but no one has asked him to leave.  Instead, they share pleasantries about the food and speculate on the Mets’ chances (dismal as usual), never revealing anything.  
  
John knows it might have been wrong to tell Stiles about the diary and then heavily imply that Peter should be kept out of the loop, but he’s still not comfortable with the man yet.  There are some things that a man just shouldn’t have to share with a stranger, and a recently recovered piece of his late wife is one of them.    
  
Stiles had nodded gruffly, eyes wet but determined.  They had no idea what the diary would say, if it would reveal weaknesses of Stiles’ condition that shouldn’t be shared, or if it’s just too personal to let someone else in on.    
  
They wait until the dishes are finished, Stiles washing and Peter drying while John and Melissa stack the plates back in the cabinets.  The room is silent, and eventually, Peter puts them out of their misery.  “I’m going to go for a run,” he says to Stiles, but catches the others’ eyes as well.  “You’ll be okay, right?” he asks, leveling Stiles with a penetrating stare.  
  
Stiles swallows and nods, giving Peter a small smile.  “Yeah, I’m not going anywhere.  Don’t worry.”  
  
Peter nods curtly and heads for the door in his loafers and cashmere sweater, not fooling anyone.    
  
“Hey, Peter?” Stiles calls.  He stops with his hand on the doorknob, not looking back.  “Make it a long one, okay?”  
  
Peter nods again, and leaves, closing the door behind them.  Stiles hates watching him walk out like this, defeated, his concern apparent in his gait.  It makes something in his stomach squirm, his legs itching to spring after him.  Reluctantly, he puts Peter from his mind and focuses on the issue at hand, telling himself he is more than ready to see what Melissa has for them.

She pulls a small notebook out of her purse and makes meaningful eye contact with both of them before handing it to John and leaving them alone.  They both stare at the window listening to Melissa get in the car and drive away, John’s hand clenched down tight on the book, the edge cutting into his palm.  When the car is out of earshot, Stiles turns to his father and gives him an encouraging look.  John puts his hand down on Stiles’ shoulder and squeezes before climbing the stairs and closing himself in the spare bedroom.

Stiles paces the length of the house, pausing every once in a while to peer up the stairs.  It feels like a century has passed before John opens the bedroom door and joins him.  His eyes seem to look straight through Stiles, completely lost in thought.  Wordlessly, he hands Stiles the diary and goes back to his own bedroom this time before shutting the door.  The click of the lock feels like a death sentence.  Stiles clenches his eyes closed to keep himself from wincing at the sound.  With a deep breath, he steels himself and opens the book to read.  
  
It’s somehow less and more than Stiles expects.  He doesn’t have much of his mother’s writing besides a few odd cards and notes that he saved as a child.  Just by reading the first few words in her looping script, Stiles has tears in his eyes, and there are thousands of words left to go.  It’s no wonder his father looked like he’d just been hit by a train when he came downstairs to hand him the diary.    
  
His mother starts off with a brief family history, and by brief, he means short in length, because the history goes back millennia.  It’s always been quite clear that his mother was Polish—he didn’t have his trainwreck of a name for nothing—so, when he reads that this abnormal family trait dates all the way back to ancient Greece, to the myths that predate the gods themselves, he doesn’t quite believe.    
  
Sure, he and Peter had read up on the erinyes, the furies, the dirae, as they were known in the Roman myths, but they had dismissed those theories very quickly.  For one, the furies were all female, and for another, there was nothing to suggest that there were more than the original three.  They were always described as infernal _goddesses_ , not infernal _gods_.  Even his mother, it seems, thought Stiles would be safe from the burden.    
  
His mother goes on to describe the historical duties of the furies in that frustrated way only an angsting teen can.  These were apparently hotly contested by her ancestors.  Ten pages alone were full of conflicting theories about the perceived differences between justice and vengeance, debates on whether or not Athena really meant what she said about “breaking the cycle of blood,” and if Orestes and the people of Athens truly deserved the punishment the Furies sought to levy.  Stiles’ mind reeled as he struggled to form an opinion.  How is he supposed to know which Greek god deserved what?  Why was war a noble pursuit, and who is he to decide otherwise?

What it all boils down to, Stiles finds out, twenty-two pages in, is that the women of his family were descendants of ancient judges who punished people for crimes against nature and their fellow man.  It sounds like a job for Peter, who would probably perform it with glee, but not for him.  Claudia described it as a curse, one that she and her mother and her grandmother prayed would come to an end one day.

He reads on, falling deeper and deeper into the pages, never once looking at the clock.  It’s almost too easy to put Peter out of his mind entirely.  He has to know what happened to his mother.

Stiles can barely read the pages about his grandmother’s death.  Not only are they tear stained and smudged, but they hurt to get through.  He can feel his mother’s pain come to life inside him.  
  
Helena.  That was his grandmother.  He’d never heard much about her but knew now that it had been an intentional omission.  Helena had fought just like his mother had until she could fight no more.  Eventually, she had succumbed to her own mother’s wishes and tried to play her role as judge, jury, and executioner.  And what had it gotten her?    
  
Death.    
  
Not a slow death, like his mother’s, but a gruesome one.  She had been caught in battle with a gargoyle of all things, high up in the air, when she had fallen to her death.  Claudia was 23, studying at a local college in Wyoming when her mother was taken from her.  Stiles knows exactly how it feels, and knowing that his mother had gone through the same thing didn’t make it any easier.  When her mother died, she’d spent an entire year alone in a tent in the mountains, never meeting another soul.  The prolonged isolation had clearly been what made Claudia crack.  
  
It doesn’t surprise Stiles at all to learn that Claudia ran away.  He can’t say he would have been able to do the same thing, but he understands the compulsion.  When her wings came upon her, in the same terrible fashion they sprung on Stiles, she hid.  Unlike Stiles, she was strong enough to keep hiding until she could keep the wings at bay forever.

It’s achingly clear now what happened.  Claudia was in too much pain; she refused to accept her duty.  After her mother’s death, she vowed to never fly, and she kept that vow until the day she died.  She carried Stiles and raised him, and all the while she kept it all in.

Stiles can barely believe it possible.  The pain alone was excruciating, as he knew firsthand, but the control it would take to hide your wings as they died inside you, to keep them hidden as the pain stole your mind and slowly killed you.  It’s unfathomable.  Claudia Stilinski was a rock, an unbreakable rock.  As much as he is in awe, he is also hurt.  His mother’s resolve was unbelievable, and yet it made him angry.  Why did she decide to leave?  She could have ended it at any time, could have told them, shown them, made them understand, but she didn’t.    
  
The lie is what Stiles doesn’t want to forgive.  Surely his father would have understood.  It had taken a little bit of time, but he had come around to the idea of werewolves and banshees and even merpeople, as one memorable trip to the lake had proven.  At eight years old, he would have been ecstatic to learn that his mother could fly.  He realizes he’s being hypocritical.  Didn’t he just do the exact same thing to his father?  Why had he tried to do it all alone?  Why had she?  
  
But he hadn’t been alone.  Stiles had Peter… has Peter.  Stiles _has_ Peter.  Peter, the werewolf who has already died and come back to life, the man who has already seen his wings bloody and broken and had still come to revere them.  Stiles could do this with Peter… maybe.  Why couldn’t his mother have done it with his father?  Why had she lied, not just for a few days, but for years?  Through pain, and through calamity, and all the way until death, Claudia had lied.  It’s not fair.  It’s not fair to him and it’s absolutely not fair to his dad.    
  
He finally understands what happened, and why his father is currently locked in his bedroom.  There was nothing any of them could have done, but it still hurts.  The guilt and the pain leap off the page and Stiles’ anger grows as he finishes reading.

She would rather have died a mere shell of herself than die like her mother had.  Stiles didn’t understand it one bit.  Helena had died anyway.  There was no stopping it, no delaying it.  A fury had to judge and a fury had to fight.  Maybe you got to choose how you went out, but death was coming for you either way and swiftly, if his mother’s sparse family tree is anything to go by.  Stiles might die young, but he already knew that.  He’s been living on borrowed time since the moment he learned werewolves existed.  If he’s going down before he’s 40, he’s going down swinging.    
  
Stiles closes the book, indignant but resolved.  He’s going to learn to fly, and he’s going to embrace his ancestry.  He’s going to honor his mother by living his life.  He’s going to prove to his father that his mother had protected them for a reason, to let them live and carry on without her.  He’s going to be the best damn flying god of vengeance the world has ever seen, and eventually, he’s going to find a way to explain it all to Peter.

 

* * *

  
  
Peter does end up running through the woods, though he leaves the loafers under a unique looking tree and does it in bare feet.  He’s never felt so stupid in his entire life.  It’s been five days and he’s been playing house with an 18-year-old boy and his father like he’s going to marry into the family any day now.  He just cooked dinner and dried the dishes for what could one day be his in-laws if the sheriff ever gets his head out of his ass, and was then summarily dismissed.  He was all but asked to leave by Stiles.  It was humiliating to say the least.  He had overstayed his welcome and had to be thrown out of the house.  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.  
  
He’ll go home, Peter decides on his third loop through the preserve.  He’ll head back to Stiles’ house and say a quick goodbye, grab his things, and let Stiles get on with his life.  It’s clear that he isn’t needed anymore.  It’s been days and Stiles hasn’t had any trouble with his wings that the sheriff couldn’t handle.  What Peter won’t admit to himself is how it makes him cringe whenever he thinks about another man’s hands on Stiles’ wings, even if they’re his father’s.  He doesn’t want to think about what it will feel like, not being there to hold Stiles through it.  Determined, Peter does two more circuits of the forest before collecting his shoes and heading back to town.    
  
The run helps clear his mind a little bit, but it’s still with a heavy heart that Peter climbs the front steps of the Stilinski house and knocks on the door.  There’s no answer, so he lets himself in, wanting to make sure everything is okay and gather the few things he brought over before heading out.  The first floor is empty, and he is just about to go looking for Stiles in his bedroom when he hears voices coming from upstairs.  Peter is never one to walk away from information, intentionally given or otherwise, so he stops and listens.  
  
“None of that is your fault, Stiles.”  
  
“Well, none of it is your fault either.  And it’s not Mom’s fault.  It’s just a shitty situation.  It sucks huge balls, but there’s nothing we can do about any of it, so we’ve just got to keep on living our lives,” Stiles says.  Peter can hear that he’s choked up, even though he’s using casual language.  “It’s what she would have wanted.”  
  
“And what about Peter?” John asks.  Peter feels his body leaning forward even though he can hear the words clear as day.    
  
“I’ll think about it.  I’m not going to tell him just yet, maybe ever.”  
  
“I can tell you right now that I would rather have known.  Don’t make him feel like I feel right now, he cares about you.”  
  
“He can still care about me.  He has a choice.  I’m not going to take that away from him.”  
  
“I guess it’s up to you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you when it blows up in your face.”  
  
“Noted,” Stiles says, chuckling darkly.  “I just need a little more time to think about it.”  
  
“I think it’s all any of us are going to be thinking about,” John replies, then the room falls silent.  It stretches on long enough that Peter deems the conversation over and starts stepping heavily on the stairs, exaggerating his movements to give the father and son fair warning of his presence.    
  
“Stiles?” he calls, trying for casual.  
  
“Up here,” Stiles says, meeting him on the landing.    
  
“I think it’s probably time that I go,” Peter says, keeping his voice as even as he can.  There’s no reason to drag this out or make it into something that it isn’t.  “I’ll just grab my things and let you and your dad settle into your new normal.  My phone will be on if you need me,” he adds, not wanting to be cruel in his departure.    
  
“Okay,” Stiles says, following Peter to his bedroom and helping him gather his few personal belongings, making sure he coils the wire of Peter’s phone charger the way he likes it.  “Let me just get some clothes,” he adds, pulling his backpack from the bottom of his closet and hastily shoving clothes and his meds into it.    
  
“What are you doing?” Peter asks though he understands perfectly.    
  
“Dad needs a few days to himself, so I’m coming with you,” Stiles says like it’s painfully obvious.  “We have some work to do anyway.”  
  
That part, Peter doesn’t understand.  “Work?  Do you have summer reading or something?” he asks.  It’s been a long time since Peter was in college, but he’s still pretty sure freshmen don’t have summer assignments to do before orientation.    
  
“I need to learn how to fly,” Stiles says.  It’s blunt, and the sharp words shock Peter more than he cares to admit.  He gives Stiles a blank look like there’s going to be an explanation, but all Stiles says is, “And you’re going to teach me.”  His smile is blinding and Peter can’t help but nod in agreement.  It looks like he’s not quite out of the game yet, and he couldn’t be more pleased.


	7. Chapter 7

“FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCK,” Stiles screams, slamming his hands down on the forest floor.  They’ve been at it for days, and he’s no closer to flying than he was before he sprouted wings in the first place.  
  
“It’s okay, you were close that time!” Peter tries to placate him, but it only makes him angrier.  
  
“Close?” Stiles shouts again, holding his skinned palm out for Peter to see.  “You call that close?  I almost lost an arm!  And you said you’d catch me, you fucking liar!”  
  
“It looked like you had it!” Peter argues.  All told, he’s a little angry with himself as well.  Stiles’ failure feels like his failure as well, and Peter’s never been a graceful loser.  “You were flapping and everything!”  
  
“Flapping does not equal flying, you good for nothing werewolf!”  
  
“Maybe we need a taller tree,” Peter muses, going to the base of the ladder and jiggling it as if testing its sturdiness.  
  
“What we need is a first aid kit,” Stiles says, hissing through his teeth as he peels a loose piece of skin off his palm.  His wings shiver in rage, and Peter can’t help but think of him as an agitated turkey gobbling at him for not leaving enough grain.  It’s not a flattering image.  He considers lending Stiles a bit of pain relief, but the moment he takes a step forward, Stiles meets him with a withering glare that stops him in his tracks.  
  
“I take it we’re done for the day?” Peter says conversationally, eyebrows raised in challenge.  If Stiles is going to give him an attitude, he’s going to give one right back.  
  
Stiles doesn’t answer but struggles to his feet without use of his hands.  Peter wants to laugh at the rage flapping but chokes it down.  He’s already in the doghouse and doesn’t want to risk being turned out of his own damn bedroom in his own apartment.  
  
Stiles stares at him for several moments.  The frustration hangs heavy in the air and Peter doesn’t know what to say.  He doesn’t consider himself to be the nurturing type, and Stiles hasn’t given him any indication to the contrary.  It’s pretty clear to him that he should be the one to speak, but he can’t for the life of him think of anything remedial to say.  Peter opens his mouth and lets out a sigh of relief when Stiles speaks first.  
  
“One more time,” he says, fists clenched tight at his sides and stalks off for the ladder again.  
  
”If you’re sure,” Peter says, twisting his mouth slightly.  It’s clear that Stiles is exhausted, but he knows better than to point it out.  There’s no curbing this bad mood, so Peter just stands back and lets Stiles burn off his frustration.  He watches keenly until Stiles catches his eye and gives him a scathing look from the top of the ladder.  Peter holds up his hands in surrender and pointedly turns his back, like giving Stiles a little privacy will help him perform.  It’s hard not to make jokes about flagging erections in his head, but he gives it an honest try.    
  
He hears a promising flap and flutter of feathers and his chest fills with a semblance of hope for all of three seconds before he hears a displacement of air followed by a loud thump.  Peter turns around so fast he’s already looking at Stiles when the scream rips from his throat.  
  
“Fuck, Stiles!” he groans as he falls to his knees on the forest floor.  Peter doesn’t need to ask if Stiles is alright because it’s obvious that he isn’t.  Apart from the screaming and string of curses that escapes his mouth, the tip of his right wing is broken and sitting at an obtuse angle, spurting blood.  It’s shocking to look at.  Peter finds it interesting that he’s become so accustomed to the curve of Stiles’ wings in their few weeks together that the difference is jarring.  It hurts Peter too, like a dagger in the chest.       
  
The tentative balance Peter’s been trying to maintain slips immediately when he sees the grimace of pain cross Stiles’ face.  He thinks it should be easier by now, that he’d become desensitized to seeing his packmate hurt, but it only seems to be getting worse.  When the salty tang of blood hits Peter’s nose, he feels a whine build in his chest.  He’d hoped it wouldn’t be like this with Stiles.  It’s been decades since Peter could truly say that his pack has been whole and safe, and while he’d like to say he’s always ready for a fight, a small part of him was looking forward to things being quiet for a change.    
  
With only Stiles—and by extension, the sheriff—in his pack, Peter didn’t expect to have such trouble holding it together.  As he looks at the tears of pain trail down Stiles’ cheeks and thinks about John’s drinking and depression, he can’t help but feel he’s already failed somehow.    
  
“I’m so sorry, Stiles,” he says, immediately cupping the man’s cheek and hissing at the pain that enters his arm.  “I should have been looking.”  Peter has no idea where these words are coming from, but they just pour right out of him, unbidden.    
  
“I knew you weren’t,” Stiles hisses, eyes squeezed shut.  “I didn’t want you to.  It’s my fault.”  
  
He grips Peter’s arm tightly, just shy of digging his nails into skin.  One finger hooks the fabric of Peter’s sleeve and curls around it.  That little extra bit of contact makes Peter swallow down hard.  It shouldn’t affect him so.  It’s childish and ridiculous, but he can’t stop staring at Stiles’ long finger as it twirls and releases the cuff of his sweater.  If this were any other moment, he would chastise Stiles for damaging the fabric, but the words just don’t come out.    
  
“I’m not mad at you,” Stiles mutters.  “This just hurts so much.”  
  
When Peter looks up, Stiles’ face is much closer to him than he expected.  His pupils look bigger than they should be, and Peter wonders if the pain has really gotten to him so fast, if he should be treating Stiles for shock.  “It’s going to be fine.  I’m going to get you home, and it’s going to be fine.”  
  
Stiles nods repeatedly, lips pursed together.  There is no discussion of where home is.  It’s understood and accepted, and something about that makes the situation feel less dire.  
  
Without thinking of how it will feel, Peter helps Stiles to his feet and then wraps his arms around his neck and lifts him by the thighs.  As anyone would, Stiles wraps his legs around Peter’s waist, squeezing tight for stability.  Peter can feel the outline of his zipper against his stomach, the metal button catching on what he will now think of as a ruined sweater.  Stiles’ right wing droops with the sudden motion, a spray of blood arching out around them in a circle.  It lists to the side, swaying like a marionette.

The visual guts Peter, but he exhales slowly and doesn’t let it show.  His gait is awkward, not from the added weight, and not even because Stiles’ wings are blocking his vision, but from his near immediate and cumbersome erection.  The way Stiles’ thighs are clenched tight to his sides is one thing, it’s entirely another that the only place for Peter to grip Stiles is with his arms crossed under his ass.

If Stiles notices the stiffness in his pants, he doesn’t let on.  Peter moves as quickly as he can without jostling Stiles’ wings too terribly.  He knows when he’s reached their max speed by the way the pain in his deltoid sparks where Stiles’ fingers are digging into his skin.  With his face pressed into the crook of Stiles’ neck, Peter feels his hot breath brushing Stiles’ skin as he murmurs assurances.

Supremely relieved that they have parked the car on a deserted turn-off, Peter folds Stiles into the back and speeds the 60 miles home.  His teeth grind together painfully, knuckles white on the steering wheel as he listens to Stiles whimper.  Pressing down on the accelerator, Peter takes turns at top speed, blinking the moisture from his eyes.  It’s remarkable, but he swallows through a lump in his throat, positive that it hurts more keeping his hands off Stiles than taking the pain into himself.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Peter can’t take it.  He pulls over in the middle of the woods after seeing a sign for rentable cabins, throws a handful of cash at the proprietor, and bustles Stiles into the one room cabin he was assured has the most privacy.  It has a view of a crystal blue lake, but Peter doesn’t open any of the curtains.  Instead,  he takes Stiles’ pain until they both pass out, wakes up to a fevered kick in the ribs, and calls Deaton to come set Stiles’ wing.  After much debate, which mostly consisted of shouting curse words at each other, they had come to the conclusion that no, Peter could not simply snap the little bones back into place when the break is still spurting blood with every movement.

To his credit, Deaton doesn’t bat an eyelash when he sees the state of the pack’s supposed human.  Although to be fair Peter had threatened to rip his arms off if he asked too many questions or upset Stiles in any way.

“I can’t believe you called a veterinarian,” Stiles grumbles, flicking Peter’s nose with his free hand, the other still clutched tight around his wrist.  “I’m not an animal.”

“No, but I don’t know any human doctors who deal in wings, do you?” Peter asks.  There’s no venom in his sarcasm.  Stiles’ face is still turned into his shoulder, hiding from the way Deaton’s fingers are flitting over his broken wing, covering it in styptic powder and wrapping it tightly.

There’s something about it that makes jealousy rage in Peter.  Blood pounds in his ears and his skin prickles.  He can hardly bear to look either, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the old Emissary just in case he tries to pull any funny business.  Peter’s not sure how much fury feathers generally go for on the black market, but if anyone’s going to be profiting off Stiles’ misfortune, it’s going to be Stiles, not a two-bit back-door ornithologist.

“That’s the best I can do,” Deaton says, gathering up a pile of bloody instruments and wrapping them in a towel.  “I don’t see many birds at the clinic.  If you end up with any more severe injuries, I suggest calling the wildlife sanctuary in Butte,” he says, closing his medical bag.  “They have a whole exhibit of…” he pauses, a smirk playing around his lips, “ _exotic_ birds.”

“Get. Out,” Peter demands through clenched teeth.  “You breathe a word of this to anyone and I’ll rip your heart out.”

Deaton gives them an amused look, eyes lingering on the spot where Peter’s cheek is pressed tightly to Stiles’ hairline.

“You’ve seen what I do to people who hurt my pack.  I’ll kill your sister first, and I know which nursing home your mother’s in.  Do not take that threat lightly, Druid,” he adds, practically chewing on his own tongue to stop himself from lunging at the man.

“Understood,” Deaton says and takes his leave.

Peter doesn’t relax until he lays Stiles down on the bed, pries the man’s fingers from his sleeve, and quickly lunges up to lock the door before settling back down.  Stiles is immediately wrapped around him like an octopus, face down on Peter’s chest.  Though it’s a little concerning that Stiles’ wings are blocking his view of the door, he can’t help being comforted by the weight.  The tip of Stiles’ wing is splinted and wrapped tightly, but the bandages are clean and for the moment, they are out of the woods.  Figuratively.  Literally, they are still in the woods, though they have shelter and the relative convenience of an ice machine in the main office Peter can use when Stiles is ready for a bath.

The quiet settles him.  Usually, Stiles is all flailing limbs and loud words, whirring around like a top.  Now, he is dozing softly, his exhales making a damp patch form on Peter’s shirt.  Peter combs through his sweaty hair with one hand while the other cups one shoulder.  The pain is almost background noise now, the hum of a TV on mute.  He doesn’t know if Stiles’ pain is fading, or if he’s just getting used to the constant ache.  He hopes it’s the former because knowing Stiles, he would lie about how much it hurt as soon as possible.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he manages to wriggle it out with two fingers.  There is a text message from a Beacon Hills number.  It’s only a few digits off from Stiles’, so Peter has a good idea who is speaking when he reads, “ _When Stiles tells you, come find me._ ”

Peter frowns at the screen, reading the message a few times before turning on do not disturb and closing his eyes.  There are many things that Stiles could tell him, he’s sure, though he has a theory about something specific.  As he falls into a weary sleep, he reminds himself that there’s probably nothing Stiles could say that would change anything.  As far as Peter is concerned, everything is exactly as it should be.  

 

* * *

 

When Peter wakes, it’s dark.  He hadn’t turned the cabin lights on, and the sun has set, leaving the room nearly pitch black.  Stiles stirs, rubbing his face around on Peter’s shirt to wipe the drool from his face.  It’s worrisome how little this bothers Peter.  He’s smiling fondly and before he realizes what his face is doing, Stiles’ eyes are open and looking at him.“What time is it?” he asks, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“Half past nine,” Peter answers, after a glance at his watch.  “We should have gotten you some dinner before we fell asleep.”

“Where are we even?  You think they deliver pizza here?  Or are you going to have to go kill me a rabbit or something?” Stiles babbles, rolling his head on his shoulders and wincing.  Peter’s hand goes to his face almost immediately, and Stiles sighs into the touch.  He closes his eyes and smiles into Peter’s palm, and Peter feels something hiccup in his body.  He boils it down to his nerves protesting the constant onslaught of pain they’ve endured since Stiles’ wings appeared.

After six years of constant, coma-penetrating pain, he feels like he should probably be immune to little twinges of discomfort, but there’s something about taking Stiles’ pain in particular that makes everything feel larger than life.  The sensations are amplified, reverberating throughout his body, throbbing in his chest and at his temples.

“If you think you can manage the pain for a few minutes, I’ll go ask at the office,” Peter says, steeling himself to leave Stiles alone.  He realizes that his hand is outstretched, poised to comb through Stiles’ hair again, and drops it slowly.  It’s not nearly as casual a movement as he hoped it would be.

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles says, tensing himself as he pushes off the mattress, letting Peter up.  “I’ve broken bones before.  I’ll live.”

“I’m pretty sure you broke at least a dozen bones, not just one, but if you insist,” Peter agrees, rolling out from under Stiles, who raises his healthy wing to allow him passage.  “Your feathers need cleaning anyway so I’ll get some ice.  You must have lost at least a pint of blood, maybe two.  We’re covered in it.”

Peter slips his loafers back on, looks down at the wet spot on his shirt with a disapproving look, and unlocks the door.

“Peter?” Stiles calls, pulling him back inside like a magnet.

“Anything else?” he asks, unsure the office is going to have a vending machine, let alone any useful amenities.

“Thank you,” he says, sitting up on the bed to look at him.  His broken wing is hanging low and listless at his side while the other stretches out and shakes the sleep off.  He looks young with his knees pulled up to his chest, his chin resting on top.  It makes something inside Peter squirm.  He nods once by way of an answer and forces himself out the door.

 

* * *

 

It’s August and the cabin isn’t air conditioned, so it seems only natural that Peter should join Stiles in his ice bath.  They take one every day, both sitting in the tub in their underwear, Stiles flicking ice water into Peter’s flushed face as he meticulously sorts Stiles’ feathers and sets them to rights.

It doesn’t escape Peter’s notice that Stiles is only teasing him to distract from his full body blush and burgeoning erection.  He’s somewhat surprised that the ice water doesn’t kill it immediately, but chalks it up to Stiles being unaccustomed to bathing with other shirtless men of his calibre.  Whittemore and the cute Hawaiian kid have absolutely nothing on him.

There isn’t a TV, but there is a radio.  They listen to baseball coverage, Peter tutting when Stiles gets overly emotional about a bad call.  In the evenings, Peter cooks meat over an outdoor fire.  They eat in silence, Peter surveying Stiles constantly, waiting for something to happen, for one of them to break composure.  He never knew the man could be so still, and wonders what has changed.

They wait until it’s pitch black, just them and the stars, for Stiles to step outside and get some air.  It’s so quiet sitting there on a musty blanket with one of Stiles’ wings hovering behind him like a shawl.  The nighttime nature sounds are soothing, crickets and frogs and the occasional owl.  Peter is finding it funny that he’s not bored, or reaching for his phone, though he did pick up a 99 cent book of crossword puzzles and has been enjoying hearing Stiles work out the clues aloud.

On the fifth day of their seclusion, they sit in the ice bath together while Peter unwraps Stiles’ wing.  It looks better than Peter feared, though still matted with blood.  He washes it carefully, listening to another sports broadcast while Stiles stares at the wall, his fists clenched.  When he’s satisfied the bleeding won’t start up again, he drops his hands into the water and rubs them clean.  Peter is about to ask Stiles if he’s ready to get out when the radio shuts off with an unexpected click.

“What is this?” Stiles asks, flicking his eyes over to Peter.  The look is sharp; narrow and direct.  Peter doesn’t know how to answer the question, so he says so.

“I don’t know what to say.”  It’s honest, and that’s all he can manage.  He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but he knows it isn’t normal.  Either having pack has become so foreign to him that the bond is unfamiliar, or it’s something new altogether.

“What are we doing?” Stiles asks him.  And again, Peter isn’t sure what the right answer is, so he goes with the honest one.

“We’re waiting for your wing to heal so we can get back to training.”

“Why are you helping me like this?” Stiles says, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing at the half-naked man sitting with him in the bathtub.

“Because you’re pack,” he replies.  It’s the truth, but it doesn’t feel like the whole truth, and it certainly doesn’t feel like the truth Stiles is asking for.

“Is that all?” Stiles asks.  It’s innocent in its simplicity.  If Peter thought it through more, he might have seen through the phrase, recognized it as a clumsy attempt to define their relationship.  But he doesn’t think.  He just speaks.

“No,” he says, eyes open, unashamed.  They sit there for another few minutes, just staring at each other.  Peter memorizes the blotches of lighter brown in Stiles’ irises, how they blend together and brighten his expression.  He memorizes how Stiles is looking at him, and thinks he could probably sit under this careful and suspicious scrutiny forever.

“Okay,” Stiles says finally, asking no more questions.  He quirks his head to the side, gaze softening, and gives Peter a slow curve of the lips.  Peter can almost swear he sees the color of Stiles’ eyes swirl and dance, learning to twinkle here in the harsh light of a dirty cabin bathroom.  Stiles holds out his hand and lets Peter help him up.  He wraps himself in a towel and folds his wings to get through the doorway.  After a few steps, he stops, looks at Peter over his shoulder, and licks his lips, blinking at him.  With one more smile, he goes to get dressed, leaving Peter dripping on the disgusting woven bath mat, completely at a loss as to what just happened.  


	8. Chapter 8

Peter isn’t sad to see the last of the cabin.  It was grimy and smelled so moldy and dank that he had to sleep with his nose pressed into Stiles’ hair to get any rest at all.  Leaving seems to help Stiles as well because as soon as the copse is out of sight in their rear view mirror, his personality seems to grow to fit all available space.  Peter’s car is loud and feels alive, Stiles’ babbling and theorizing about better flying techniques fill the air and makes Peter excited to try again.  

They head back to Peter’s apartment and take separate showers this time.  With Stiles’ wings healed and hidden, there’s no reason for them to bathe together anymore, but Peter still paces outside the door until Stiles is finished.  He tries not to analyze those feelings too closely and instead finds the movie Stiles had been raving about on Amazon and buys a digital copy.  It’s only an hour later that they are wrapped up in several blankets on a pile of pillows in front of the couch that Stiles finds so uncomfortable he’d rather lie fully on top of Peter, bones and all.  

Thai food and the soft tapping of chopsticks are a good companion to _Eddie the Eagle_.  Stiles spends most of his time shoring up Peter’s coaching technique while Peter does his best to not compare himself to Hugh Jackman.  He has to admit, for a human, the man’s muscle definition is absurd, but Peter assures himself that he has the better personality.  There’s no way he would need to fly through the air with a cigarette in his mouth to prove how cool and intimidating he was, people know just by looking at him.  And at least he doesn’t wear a leather jacket.  Ever since Derek started wearing his late father’s, the entire concept of the article of clothing felt juvenile and desperate to him.  

They fall asleep there on the floor, Stiles sprawled out on top of Peter, seeming to touch every inch of his skin.  When they wake in the morning, Stiles is raring and ready to go, determined to catch some air.  He flaps around the house in Eddie’s eagle dance while Peter cooks breakfast, not a care in the world for how ridiculous he looks.  Peter struggles to not find it endearing.

“I think I’m going to do it this time,” Stiles says, tapping his fingers against the dashboard as they wait at a light.  Peter is busy running through the list of supplies he packed, hoping that he hasn’t forgotten anything that could be useful when Stiles hurts himself again.

“I believe you,” he says, grateful Stiles can’t hear the lie.  

It’s not that Peter isn’t confident that he’ll learn to fly one day, it’s that he’s terrified.  He keeps imagining Stiles’ wings broken in half, bleeding out all over the forest floor while he watches.  He picks up some of the clotting powder but fears Stiles will injure himself too badly for it to be any use.  

It’s enough to make him half-wish that Stiles would just give up and stop trying before he kills himself and makes Peter witness it.  He’s lost more pack members than he’d care to count and can’t stop thinking about the possibility of losing Stiles before anything has a chance to happen.  Peter isn’t sure what he’s hoping for, but it doesn’t seem right to kill off one member of a two member unit before they’ve even had the chance to turn themselves into a family.  

Peter’s plans of world domination go entirely out the window when they make it to their spot and Stiles strips his shirt off.  Stiles’ wings rip out of him in one swift motion, and it looks like the speed of it is enough to make him take off just like that, as easy as anything.  Peter spares a moment to think how Stiles’ determination is stronger than he gives him credit for before Stiles comes crashing to the ground.  He hadn’t gotten very far, was only a few feet up, flapping vigorously, desperate to launch into full flight.  The sound is what makes Peter cringe, like a bird smacking into your window but a thousand times worse.  

He dusts Stiles off, gives him a few encouragements and endearments, and sends him off again.  It goes on for hours, Stiles making it a few feet, maybe even traveling forward for a few seconds before losing the momentum and falling to the earth.  It’s almost like his body forgets how to flap after a few moments and realizes that it’s really better off earthbound.  

“I’m never going to get this.”

“Yes you will,” Peter assures him, ruffling the dust out of his hair with one hand.  

“Maybe we should tell the rest of the pack,” Stiles says, eyes cast on the ground.

“Why?”

“Maybe they could help?”

“They’ve never helped before,” Peter points out, and if he sounds slightly bitter, it’s because he is.

“We’re going to have to tell them eventually.  How long do you think I can keep this a secret?” he asks, waving his hand toward his back where his wings are flexing intermittently.

“Tell them when you want to, but I’m not sure it’s going to make any difference,” Peter says.  “This is all down to you and me, and you’re going to get it.  I know you are.”

“Maybe we should try something else.”

“Whatever it takes,” Peter says, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder and waiting until the man catches his eye and gives him a reluctant smile.  

They switch gears, going to a clearing where Stiles can just run at full speed and try a land take-off, but it’s no use.  Stiles becomes more and more frustrated, jaw set as he brushes himself off.  Peter tries to keep his face flat, but his pulse is racing and his teeth hurt from being clenched together so hard.  

It’s obvious that Stiles is losing faith, and he can’t blame him in the slightest.  Peter never expected it to be so difficult.  Stiles’ wings are massive.  They look so capable, and yet Stiles can’t manage to do the one thing wings are meant to do.  

Stiles stares at him from the ground, forearms skinned from where he had just taken his 80th crash landing.  He’s exhausted, bruised, and in pain, and looking to Peter to give him permission to leave.  The sun is starting to set, but Stiles refuses to call it a night until Peter says so.  

It’s then that he realizes what power he has over the situation, if not Stiles himself.  Maybe it’s not power.  Maybe it’s more like influence.  As he stands there, towering over his packmate, somehow so much more than a broken teenager on the ground, Peter finds that for once,  he wants to use his power for the right reasons.  Stiles is having a crisis of confidence, and he’s the one that can fix it.  

Peter smiles, shaking his head.  He’s never felt like this before, this push and pull of emotion, the way he wants to bury his own worry down deep inside to give Stiles the push he needs to keep going.  It’s excruciating, but he keeps his composure saying, “You’re not done just yet.  Come on, get in the car.”

“What?” Stiles asks, sliding around in the dust as he tries to get up.  “Where are we going?”

Peter holds out a hand and pulls him to his feet.  “Shake it off.  I’ve got an idea.”

It takes twenty minutes to drive back to the preserve, and Peter spends the entire time trying to talk himself into his own idea.  It’s reckless and stupid and he hates it, but in the back of his mind, he knows that this is the only thing that will work.  

“You’re quiet,” Stiles says as he pulls off into the grass and cuts the engine.

“I’m always quiet.”

“First of all, no you are absolutely not, and second of all, what are we doing here?”

“Do you trust me?” Peter asks, honestly not sure what Stiles’ answer will be.

Stiles stares at him for a full minute, hands tapping on his knees kicking up little puffs of dust as he thinks.  It’s silly, but Peter holds his breath, waiting.  The fluctuations in Stiles’ scent say more than words, and he actually wants to listen and not assume.  

“All evidence points to yes,” Stiles says eventually.  “But that doesn’t mean you’re not scaring me a little bit.”

“Good, that’s good,” Peter says, letting out the air he was holding.  “You should be scared.”

“That’s not what I was expecting you to say.”

“Well I don’t want you to be scared, but if you weren’t, that would probably be worse, because only an insane person would be okay with what I’m going to say next.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely scaring me.  What’s going on?” Stiles asks, reaching out a hand for Peter’s arm.  

That little touch says a lot, and Peter breathes in deeply, holding it for a second before letting it go.  He gives Stiles a little encouraging smile and says, “Follow me,” before exiting the car.

They walk through the preserve in silence for ten minutes.  Peter thinks about grabbing Stiles’ hand a thousand times but manages to keep stopping himself.  It would probably be more comforting to him than it would be to Stiles, and he doesn’t want to make the man even more nervous.  The entirety of his plan relies on his ability to keep cool and confident, and it’s proving to be much more difficult than he anticipated.  

Finally, they arrive, and Stiles stops dead in his tracks, running his hand over a large rock that he seems to find familiar.  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says, peering out over the edge of the ravine.  “I will die.  Like literally die.”

“You won’t die,” Peter assures him, thankful not for the first time that Stiles can’t hear how fast his heart is beating.  “You’re going to be fine.  This is your motivation.  We weren’t serious enough before.  This is deadly serious.  You fly or you fall.”

“Then I’m definitely going to die.”

“No you’re not,” Peter says, catching a flailing hand as Stiles walks in circles and wipes the dust off his sweaty face.  “You’re going to be fine.”

“You can’t possibly know that!” Stiles shouts.  He’s so nervous that the fear has morphed into anger.  “You don’t know any more about this than I do!  Stop pulling your Alpha male bullshit!  It’s not going to work!  I’m not one of your betas!”

“It’s not bullshit, it’s faith!” Peter shouts back, grabbing Stiles by the shoulders and holding him still.  

“What the fuck do you know about faith, Peter?” Stiles asks, twisting his arms as he tries to get away, but Peter holds firm.

“I know that you need to do this.  I don’t know why, and I haven’t asked, but I know you!  I know there’s some reason that you need to fly, and I _know_ you can do it.  I know you can do it!” he repeats again, enunciating each word deliberately.  

Stiles stops struggling and closes his eyes.  Peter waits him out, knowing there’s more to be said.  Even so, he’s surprised when a tear falls onto Stiles’ cheek.

“I’m scared,” he says, and somehow Peter knows he’s not just talking about the fall.  “This is all such a mess.  I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

Immediately, Peter is there, wrapping Stiles up in his arms, rubbing his back.  “It’s going to be alright,” Peter whispers in his ear.  “I’m going to be right here the whole time.  Well, down there,” he says, pulling away to nod down at the bottom of the ravine.  “Don’t cry,” he says softly, wiping the tears from his face with the sleeve of his sweater.  “I’ll catch you.  But I won’t need to.  I know you won’t fall.  I know you can do this.”

“You think you’re so smart,” Stiles all but blubbers into his neck, pulling him close once more.  

“I’m your favorite evil genius,” Peter tells him, trying to get a laugh out of them both.

“You’re my only evil genius,” Stiles tells him, “don’t get cocky.”

“Still yours though,” Peter says, warmth filling his chest as he repeats Stiles’ choice in words.  It’s been a long time since someone has taken ownership over him.  Laura and Derek all but discarded him, but he’s been adopted by a winged teenager that’s accepted him and seems to actually feel something for him as well.  The magnitude of it overwhelms Peter, who takes a few minutes to revel in Stiles’ embrace.  

“Are you ready?” he asks, proud that his voice sounds steady.  

“Ready to fling myself off a cliff?” Stiles asks, rolling his eyes.  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Peter nods and squeezes both of his hands.  “You’re going to surprise yourself.  I’m sure of it.  I’ll just be down there, but keep your eyes on the sky,” he says, backing away and looking for the best spot to start his descent.  “Make me proud,” Peter adds before finding a grip and climbing down the ravine.  

A few minutes later, Peter finds himself staring up at the edge of the cliff.  The setting sun is in his eyes, but he thinks he can see a figure up there, so he waves his hands encouragingly and waits.  The anticipation strangles him, but there’s nothing else he can do, so he waits, hoping Stiles hasn’t given up hope.  When he finally sees Stiles take a running leap off the edge, he immediately regrets everything.  

Stiles is falling too fast.  His wings aren’t flapping so much as being tossed about in the wind as he plummets toward the ground.  Peter’s heart is in his throat and he freezes, eyes wide in shock as he watches his packmate fall to his death.  It takes a moment before he realizes he should be doing something and runs forward, determined to catch Stiles if it comes to that.  

Somewhere, deep down, Peter still has faith.  Stiles is nothing if not unpredictable.  Even when they just thought he was human, Stiles was still not someone to be underestimated.  Peter thinks back to all the times he’s seen Stiles run headfirst into danger, even when that danger was him, and finds himself laughing.  Only Stiles.  Only Stiles would literally jump off a cliff to prove a point.  The man has more nerve in his little finger than Peter will ever have.  

Just as the thought crosses his mind, Peter sees Stiles fling his body forward until it looks like he’s diving.  Peter’s breath catches as his velocity increases.  His eyes dart around, mentally calculating where he thinks Stiles will land and if he can get there in time.  It takes him a while to notice that Stiles is no longer falling.  His wings are flapping and then staying still, taking him in a slow descending glide.  

Peter can’t help but whoop out loud.  “Yes!” he screams, not sure if it’s out of pride or relief from not having to try to catch Stiles’ life in his hands.  “Yes!” he screams again, smiling now, running after Stiles as he glides high above his head.  

Stiles flaps some more, actually rising in the air.  Peter is struck dumb.  Stiles’ wings are spread, beating every few seconds, keeping him airborne.  Every time his wings open, they block the sun, allowing Peter to see the smug smirk on Stiles’ face even from a great distance before he’s blinded by the light again.  Stiles looks radiant, sun shining in a corona around his body.  

Finally able to relax, Peter stares, laughing in pure joy as Stiles flies large circles above him, swooping and diving before catching more air and rising again.  He doesn’t know how he’s done it, maybe it was as easy as walking once he got the hang of it, but Stiles now seems to be in complete control.   It almost doesn’t seem fair, for flight to look so natural after all the broken feathers and bloody wings Stiles has had to endure.  

He wonders if it will ever get old, watching Stiles performing what can only be described as the miracle of flight.  Peter also wonders what it would feel like, to be free like that, the wind in your face as you soar above it all.  The only thing he can compare it to is running flat out in wolf form through the woods, but somehow he doesn’t think that’s anywhere close.  

“I’m fucking Iron Man!” he hears Stiles shout from 50 feet away.  

“You’re Angel, you dumbass!  Know your comics!” Peter shouts back, laughing again in shock and surprise.  

“We’re going to need to go shopping for bodysuits then,” Stiles shouts over the flapping of his wings.  He grins wickedly and then turns into a dive, heading straight for Peter.  Giggling uncontrollably now, Peter takes off running, hopping over stones and bushes, attempting to outrun Stiles’ pace.  He’s unsuccessful.

“You need to be faster than that, Zombie Wolf,” he shouts as he hovers low enough to grab Peter under the arms.  He glides for a few feet before the added weight unbalances him and they go rolling into the dirt.  Stiles lands on top of Peter’s chest, knocking the wind out of him.  

“I knew you could do it,” he says, coughing, but smiling through the layer of red dust covering his lips.  

Stiles stares down at him, smiling broadly before swooping in for a kiss.  It’s messy and tastes like dirt, but he doesn’t care.  To Peter, it’s a victory.  “Peter… I—”

“I know,” he says, running a hand over the crest of Stiles’ wing.  “You don’t have to say anything.  It’s fine.”

“So we can just skip to the sex then?” Stiles asks, giving him a cheeky grin.

“Works for me,” Peter responds, deadlifting Stiles off of him in an effort to get back home faster.  

“Want me to fly you home?” Stiles asks, eyebrows high.  

“I think you’re going to need a bit more practice before you’re ready to take passengers.”

“Race me?  First one home gets the first orgasm!” Stiles shouts, airborne before Peter has even gotten off the ground.  He grins, clawing his way back up the cliff and to his car as fast as he can, already content with the fact that he’s going to lose.  Giving Stiles his first orgasm with another person is not going to be a hardship.  He puts the car in gear and races home.

 

* * *

 

When Peter finally makes it through his front door, the bedroom window is wide open and the shower is running.  He strips on his way to the bathroom and pulls back the curtain.  

“Took you long enough,” Stiles quips, standing proud in his nudity, wings nowhere to be seen.  “I believe you owe me a blow job.”

“No one said anything about blow jobs,” Peter says, letting his eyes rake down Stiles’ body, taking a good look at everything that’s been covered up for the last month.  He’s not disappointed.  “The bet was for the first orgasm.  I’ll decide how it’s given.”

“Fair enough, hot stuff,” Stiles says, stepping forward so there’s more room.  “Now get in here and make a man out of me.”

Peter rolls his eyes dramatically but finds it difficult to resist.  The moment he’s under the spray, his mouth is on Stiles’ shoulder, sucking hard.  Stiles moans, and the sound goes straight to Peter’s dick, the pulse of desire putting him well on his way to an erection.  Brutal kisses and bites make their way up Stiles’ throat, to the beauty mark near the corner of his mouth, and finally to his lips.  It steals all the breath out of them, the steam making the air thick in Peter’s nose.  

Peter crowds Stiles against the wall where he hisses as the cold tiles hit his overheated skin.  “Fuck,” Stiles groans as Peter once again attacks his throat, twisting his nipples.  He trails kisses down Stiles’ chest and drops to his knees.  Peter fights the urge to give into Stiles’ earlier request, but it’s not without difficulty.  Stiles’ scent is strong here, less muddled by the steam, and Peter wants to rub it into his skin.  

He breathes out through his mouth, smirking when the heat of it sends a shiver down Stiles’ body.  Deciding he’d like to see the man squirm on his fingers, Peter moves a few bottles of product aside until he finds a well-used tube of lubricant.  

“Is this okay?” he asks, flicking the cap open and aiming the bottle at two of his fingers.  

Stiles looks down at him and nods vigorously.  “So totally okay,” he says, blowing out a breath through pursed lips as Peter reaches behind him and lightly circles his hole.  He jerks with the touch, nearly poking Peter in the eye with his dick.  

“Easy, easy,” Peter says, running his free hand down Stiles’ thigh and continuing to circle his middle finger, pressing a little harder this time.  “You’re doing so well,” he breathes, getting a shuddering exhale from Stiles in return.  Peter takes his time, waiting until Stiles is relaxed again before pressing just the tip of his finger inside.  Stiles sucks in a breath, biting down on his bottom lip.  It’s a look that would have Peter weak in the knees if he weren’t already on the ground.  Stiles is so responsive, pressing into every little touch, knees shaking with the effort to stay still.

“You can move if you want to,” Peter suggests, figuring Stiles might want to sink onto his hand at his own pace.  Long fingers gripping his hair just this side of painful is not what he expects, but he’s thankful for it anyway.  With every tiny movement of his finger, Stiles squeezes and pulls, causing precome to bead at the tip of Peter’s dick.  He’s always liked having his hair pulled, and it’s almost as if Stiles knows that instinctively, the way he’s twisting it just right, making Peter’s scalp prickle.  

Wanting to give as much as he’s getting, Peter pulls out and begins to press in with two fingers.  Stiles lets out a truly pornographic moan, and when Peter looks up, he sees Stiles’ mouth wide open, head tilted back against the tile.  Peter gets pelted in the eyes with water for his trouble, so he ducks his head again, working on giving Stiles a hickey on the top of his inner thigh as he pushes deep with his hand.  

When he goes to graze Stiles’ prostate for the first time, his hair is pulled sharply as Stiles lets out a little yelp.  If it weren’t for the fingers wrapped painfully in his hair, Peter would have been knocked over by the force of Stiles’ wings extending.  As it is, Stiles stumbles as he’s pressed away from the wall, the shower curtain flung aside as his right wing extends.  

“Fuck, oh my God,” Stiles screeches, but it turns into another moan as Peter begins rubbing that spot again.  He runs his nose up Stiles’ inner thigh, nudging his sack on the way, drowning in the dual sensation of Stiles clenching around his finger and yanking on his hair.  Inhaling deeply, Peter grazes and rubs, presses and retreats, working Stiles in a rhythm that seems to make him pant on every beat.  

“You think you can come like this?” Peter asks, peering up at Stiles through squinted eyes, mindful of the shower spray.  “Just on my fingers?”

“It’s never worked before,” Stiles says, reminding Peter that he’s probably done this to himself hundreds of times before.  “But I think you’re better at it than I am.”

“I’d hope so,” Peter says, trailing his tongue down Stiles’ length and lapping at the fluid that has gathered at the tip.  “I think I know how to make you come, just like this,” he mutters, pulling back from Stiles’ dick.  He hears a groan of protest but pays it no mind.  Peter has better plans for Stiles, who is now rocking down on his hand, one hand gripping his shoulder tight, the other still clenched in Peter’s hair.  

“Fuck, Peter, please,” he whines, circling his hips as best as he can with his enormous wings hindering his movement, but Peter doesn’t give him what he wants.  He slows down, giving barely any pressure to Stiles’ prostate and settles in to watch Stiles work for it.  The man is beautiful above him, his flat stomach flexing and thighs twitching with the effort to wring pleasure out of Peter’s still hand.  Peter smirks, enjoying the view for a few minutes before he gives into temptation and laves at Stiles’ balls, feeling the satisfying weight on his tongue

An angry groan wrenches out of Stiles’ throat as he pulls hard on Peter’s hair to look the man in the face.  “Stop teasing.  It’s my first time, you’re supposed to be nice.”

“When have I ever been nice?” Peter asks, nipping sharply at Stiles’ hip, smiling when he sees blood rush to the surface, purpling the skin.  

“Please Peter, you’re killing me,” Stiles whines, releasing his fingers to pet at Peter’s hair, like the gentling of his touch is going to convince the man to play fair.  

“Not yet, but I think I know exactly what you need,” Peter says, circling the tip of Stiles’ cock with his tongue just once before pulling off.  He raises his free hand, squeezing Stiles’ ass hard before moving upward as far as he can reach to the folded wing behind Stiles’ back.  He presses down gently on Stiles’ prostate just as he trails one damp finger over the tip of his primary feathers and Stiles comes hard, streaking his face.  

Peter licks around his mouth quickly before the water can wash away the evidence, a rumbling in his throat betraying how blissed out he is from tasting his packmate’s release.  He taps his finger inside Stiles a few more times, pulling an extra pulse of come from his dick, which he catches expertly on his tongue.  Removing his fingers, he looks up to find Stiles completely slumped against the wall, heedless of how he’s crushing his feathers with the tile.  

“You alright?” Peter asks, squinting up at Stiles, whose fingers have gone lax against him.  

“Hmm?” Stiles groans, opening one eye a bit before closing it again.  

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Peter says, chuckling.  He grips Stiles’ hips and looks down at his own erection, imagining how it would feel to thrust into Stiles’ warm and relaxed body.  

“Look at you,” Stiles says, finally opening his eyes.  His thumb brushes across Peter’s cheek and swipes across his lips, leaving a trail of come.  Peter licks it away, looking up at Stiles through his lashes.  Stiles shivers and does it again on the other cheek, licking his lips hungrily in a mirror of Peter.  “You look so good covered in my come.”

“Just think how you’ll look covered in mine,” Peter responds, catching Stiles’ thumb in his mouth and sucking.  Stiles’ eyes widen just a bit farther, pupils wide with renewed arousal.  “You ready to find out?” he asks, smelling more than seeing Stiles’ cock start to fill again.  This time he doesn’t even try to stop himself from pressing his face into Stiles’ groin and inhaling deeply.  That deep and powerful scent of pack and sex goes straight to Peter’s dick.  He can feel it rise off his thigh and bob, more than ready for attention.

“Fuck, yes,” Stiles says immediately, scrambling behind him with his hands to shut off the water before practically leaping out of the tub.  Water sprays everywhere as his wings shake and he nearly faceplants on the tile before making it out to the bedroom.  

“Easy.  If you hurt yourself neither of us get to have any fun,” Peter chides, tossing a towel on the floor to soak up some of the water before following.  Stiles stares, mouth open as the water trails down the lines of his chest to his abs.  Peter can’t help but smirk.  “Like what you see, sweetheart?” he teases, running his hand up Stiles’ side until he can cup the curve of his ribcage.  

Stiles nods again, lost for words.  

“That’s too bad because all you’re going to see tonight is my sheets,” Peter says, voice going low and husky.  “Get on the bed, darling, hands and knees.”

Stiles complies readily, all but clamoring onto the mattress and putting his forehead to the bed, ass up in the air.

“That’s it.  So good for me,” Peter murmurs sweetly, hands gripping Stiles’ ass cheeks and kneading them.  “Look at this,” he says, rubbing his thumb over Stiles’ furled hole, pressing in just a little bit to make Stiles hiss.  

“Fuck, Peter,” he moans, muffled by the sheets, but more than audible for Peter.  “Please get in me.”

“Absolutely not,” Peter says, clipped and precise.  “You’re not nearly ready.”  He walks around the bed to his nightstand and produces an identical bottle of lube.  “Condom?” he asks, voice even.

“No thanks,” Stiles says, raising his head a fraction so he can look Peter in the eye when he answers.  “I want to feel you dripping out of me.  I bet you’re going to stuff me full,” he adds, eyes dropping to Peter’s balls, which hang heavily between his legs.  

Peter smirks, anticipating the noise they’re going to make when they smack against Stiles with every thrust.  “Such a dirty mind you have,” he says, sauntering back behind Stiles to run a hand down the arch of his back.  “I love it.”  Wasting no time at all, Peter slicks his fingers and slides two back into Stiles with one movement. 

“Fuck!” he yelps, rocking back against Peter’s hand.  

“Not just yet, darling.  I want to hear you beg for it.”

He adds a third finger and watches Stiles’ wings shiver and flutter uncontrollably.  Stiles looks magnificent, wings spread full, hands gripped in the sheets above his head, pushing back against Peter’s hand so far the webbing of his fingers starts to hurt.  

“Peter, please,” Stiles moans, rolling his shoulders in an effort to settle into the sensation.  He turns to look over his shoulder at Peter, but can’t see past his wings.  The ridiculousness of it makes Peter want to laugh, but the noises Stiles is making are nowhere near funny.  His balls are aching and his cock is so hard it’s nearly as painful, but he makes himself wait.  Stiles isn’t nearly desperate enough.

He pulls his fingers out, adds more lube, and folds his hand until he can add his pinky in.  Stiles hisses but doesn’t scream and a hint of blood hits Peter’s nose, telling him that Stiles has bitten through his lip.  “None of that now, sweetheart,” he purrs, pinching down on Stiles’ ass cheek.  “I want to hear everything that pretty mouth of yours has to say.”

“It’s so much,” he whines, putting a broad smile on Peter’s face.  “I can’t…”

“You’ve never put your own fist in here before?” Peter asks nonchalantly, twisting his hand until his palm is parallel with the mattress.  

“N—no,” Stiles stutters, hips rocking, pulling away from the intrusion.  

“With those long fingers?”  Peter muses, “Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“Peter, please!” Stiles begs, exactly what Peter has been waiting to hear, but still, he doesn’t give Stiles what he wants.  Instead, he leans forward, bracing himself on the mattress at Stiles’ waist and lowering his head over Stiles’ back.  His mouth is right behind Stiles’ head, breath prickling the damp skin of Stiles’ neck as he pushes his hand in deeper.

Stiles rolls his head to the side, freeing his mouth so he can catch a quick breath.  “Fuck, Peter!  I’m ready, please!”

“I don’t think you want it quite bad enough, Stiles.”

The man underneath him shudders at the sound of his name, and Peter reminds himself to use it more often if that’s the full-bodied reaction he gets.  “I want it.  I need it,” Stiles pleads, but Peter does nothing.  

“I have a theory,” Peter says, ignoring Stiles’ words.  “That these feathers might react well to certain stimulus.”

“Ahh,” Stiles breathes, unable to form an answer.  

“What do you think, Stiles?”

“I—I don’t know.  They do all sorts of crazy shit,” he manages.

“No, darling,” Peter hums.  “They do something special, don’t they?  Something just for me?”

“Fuck, yes, Peter!” Stiles screams as Peter’s mouth comes down over the curve of his wing and the tip of his tongue runs along his scapulars.  

“That’s what I thought,”  Peter says smugly, lapping at the upper coverts of Stiles’ left wing.  The texture is so strange on his tongue, it feels sharp, almost like licking the edge of a knife.  That coupled with the sounds coming out of Stiles with every pass of his tongue make Peter want to never stop doing it.  Even so,  he pauses for a second, just to hear Stiles’ pant in relief when the sensation stops.  

“Oh, my, god, what is that?” Stiles asks, breathless.  

“You were made for this, weren’t you?” Peter asks rhetorically, running his tongue across the downy feathers that are closest to Stiles’ back.  “I can smell how hard you are.  Are you going to come like this?” he asks, pressing with his fingertips until he can massage Stiles inside and out.  

“Wait, no,” Stiles protests, mouth slack against the mattress.  The words come out garbled, but Peter can still hear them clearly enough to slow his movements.  “You have to fuck me,” Stiles says, not a request but a demand.

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” Peter says, pulling his hand out before swiping his tongue against Stiles’ coverts one more time.  “I was just exploring your body.  There are so many ways to make you moan, sweetheart.  I don’t think I’ve found even half of them yet.”

“Next time, please,” Stiles pants, turning to try to catch Peter’s eye again.  “I want to feel you in me, Peter.  Please.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Peter says, pushing off the mattress so he can find the lube and slick himself up.  He’s so hard he knows it probably won’t last as long as he’d like, but Stiles is so close to the edge already, he doubts it will matter much.  Next time he’ll take his time, take Stiles apart inch by inch until he can’t even speak.  

“Ready?” he asks, hands tight against Stiles’ hips.

“Fuck me,” Stiles says simply, almost too exhausted to get the words out.  

“Yes,” Peter replies and lines himself up before slowly pressing in.  It’s so hot and tight that he catches himself just before his claws emerge and sink into Stiles’ skin.  He groans, low and deep, and collects himself before pulling out.  

“Ahh,” Stiles repeats, matching Peter’s rhythm.  It’s slow but steady, and Stiles makes this breathy noise every time the air is punched out of him that makes Peter want to ruin him.  “Harder,” Stiles asks eventually, maddened by Peter’s glacial pace.  

“You sure?” Peter asks, only putting up a token protest.  He can’t wait to bury himself deep into Stiles’ burning heat, and only waits for a slight nod before thrusting forward as far as he can.  

“God!  Peter!” Stiles screams into the mattress, voice growing hoarse.  

“Is that what you want, sweetheart?” Peter asks, pulling back so hard on Stiles’ hips that he’s sure to leave bruises.  His balls smack so fast against Stiles’ that it almost hurts, but he carries on, speeding up, desperate to make Stiles’ voice break.  

“Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!  Ahhh!”

“Yes, that’s right.  So good for me, Stiles,” Peter groans, sweat dripping down his temples, hands slipping on Stiles’ damp skin.  

“P—Peter!” he hears Stiles almost sob.  Muscles clench down around him and he feels his eyes change color, fangs threatening to drop in his mouth with his urge to bite down on Stiles’ flesh.  

“Yes, that’s it.  Come for me,” Peter moans, eyes falling shut as his orgasm threatens to overwhelm him.  

“Need more!” Stiles whines, nearly pushing himself off the mattress to get a hand around his aching cock.  

Peter leans over, catching himself on one hand as he thrusts once, twice, three times before catching one of Stiles’ feathers between his lips and shuddering through his release.  Stiles screams, clenching around him so tight his orgasm stretches out a few extra seconds.  His mind floats there in the air for a minute as he collapses against Stiles’ back, sweaty and exhausted.  

“Fuck,” he groans, lost for words.  

“Fuck,” Stiles echoes, muffled by the mattress and the wad of sheets that he’s managed to bite down on.  Peter gathers his strength and then rolls off Stiles, doing his best to fall backward and to the side, avoiding crushing Stiles’ feathers.  

“I think you broke me,” Stiles says, exhaling deeply and letting his wings melt away.  

“Are you hurt?” Peter asks, quickly throwing his palm on Stiles’ thigh to check for pain, but he finds none.

“No, not like that.  I think my brain just short-circuited,” Stiles clarifies, smiling blandly, completely satisfied.  

“I guess you have a few extra erogenous zones.  I’m going to have so much fun with you,” Peter says, pulling Stiles in close and resting the man’s head against his chest.  

“Lucky me,” Stiles says quietly, settling in for sleep.  

“Lucky you is right,” Peter agrees, nuzzling into his hair, inhaling the scent of his sweat and satisfaction.  

“Hey, Peter?” Stiles asks, pressing a kiss to his chest.  

“Yes, Stiles?”

“No one touches my wings but you, okay?”

“Not if they want to keep their hands,” Peter says, pulling Stiles in tight to his side.  

“Do you love me?” Stiles asks, face still tucked tight into Peter’s chest.

“Do you love me?” Peter responds.  

“I think maybe,” he says softly.  

“I think you do.”

“Oh really?” Stiles asks, huffing out a laugh against Peter’s skin.

“Or do you make a habit of jumping off of cliffs for just anybody?”

Stiles laughs out loud, the force of it shaking Peter’s entire body.  

“I guess you’ve got me there.  Jumping off of cliffs… that must be love.”

“I thought so,” Peter mutters into Stiles’ hair, ever so pleased with himself.

“You love me too, then?  I didn’t see you jump off any cliffs for me,” Stiles points out, clearly desperate for the answer.  

“I didn’t have to.  I already knew I loved you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because asking you to jump off that cliff nearly killed me, and watching you do it… felt like dying,” Peter says softly, swallowing hard.

“And you would know…” Stiles adds, words full of wonder.

“Yes, darling,” Peter says, pressing a kiss to his hair.  “I would know.”


	9. Chapter 9

By the time Peter wakes up, the sun is high in the sky and his bedroom has gotten hot enough that he’s sweating, even while nude.  He reaches across the sheets but already knows Stiles is gone before he opens his eyes.  There’s only one heartbeat in the apartment and it’s his.  He frowns and opens his eyes, finding a small notebook laid out on Stiles’ pillow.  Just as he reaches for it, his phone beeps.  

_I thought you had a right to know everything.  When you’re done reading, come find me._

He’s heard those words before, from Stiles’ own father.  Peter is sure that he’s going to be contacting Stiles first, until he opens the cover and sees what must be Claudia Stilinski’s maiden name scrawled on the inside and a date from 1976 on the first entry.  

Peter sits, just a pillow between his naked body and the words of Stiles’ mother, and he reads.  He reads the entire thing through three times, committing as much of it to memory as possible.  It takes him over an hour, but he barely moves a muscle.  

It’s a section near the middle that he keeps coming back to.  The history and lore are interesting, to be sure, but it means nothing to him right now.  If Stiles has a job to do, they’ll figure it out later.  Peter returns to the middle one more time before he considers himself finished.  

It’s hard to read, but he knows it must have been harder to live through.  Claudia Stilinski was a survivor of something much worse than six years of burns and isolation.  She had isolated herself, done it _to herself_ , and never told a soul why.  He can’t even imagine the strength it must have taken for her to hide the pain, day in and day out.  More than that though, Peter finds himself drawn to what she wrote about her mate, because it’s achingly clear that’s the role he’s been cast in the retelling of the fury’s story.

Claudia had spent her entire young life eschewing love, resolved to never have children, to never have a daughter, to never find a mate that would trigger the emergence of her ancestral traits. And she was doing a pretty good job of it until she met John Stilinski.

 _It was inevitable_ , she wrote. No matter how you locked yourself away, or ran from the truth, your mate would find you eventually. _It’s in our nature_ , she said, _unchangeable. One cannot fight the tide._ Peter stops there for a few minutes, letting it sink in once more. If Stiles’ mother was to be believed, Stiles’ wings were a mark of his sacred duty. They develop when you find your mate, who is supposed to support you and lend you strength as you make tough choices. She also grudgingly pointed out that they were a mark of breeding maturity, as it was also a fury’s duty to pass their heritage along to their daughters.  

Stiles has a mate, and it’s Peter. He gets stuck on this point for quite some time.

In a way, this is entirely Peter’s fault.  He’s far beyond speculation on that point. It’s painfully obvious that spending time with Peter had been what triggered the emergence of Stiles’ wings. He wonders briefly if all of this could have been prevented, or if the existence of werewolves and his family’s migration to Beacon Hills made everything inevitable.

If the Argents had never hunted the Hales, if Kate had never set the fire that spurred Peter’s actions, if Derek never came back to Beacon Hills, if none of that had ever happened, he would never have been benched by a ragtag group of werewolves and left to stew with the pack human in Derek’s loft.

Was this all some sort of odd conflagration of supernatural and supernaturally adjacent clans? It ’s too ridiculous, too outlandish to be anything but destiny. A fury and a werewolf? That’s what the gods had planned for them eons ago? Peter can’t believe it.  

Claudia wrote and wrote, her travels, her adventures, every single thing that she had done to keep herself from finding a mate. When her mother died, she’d spent an entire year alone in a tent in the mountains, never meeting another soul. That had clearly been what made Claudia crack. After a year in solitude, anyone would return to civilization, no matter how much they tried to fight it.

Peter admires her effort, knowing that he would have done anything for a little human contact while in his coma.  Claudia hurt and sacrificed so much to try to save Stiles from this burden, but inevitably succumbed like all her foremothers had.  

Claudia doesn’t seem to blame John for any of this, but Peter can’t help but be angry at the man on her behalf, even if he condemns himself with the thought.  It’s clear as day:  if you don’t want to fight and kill and die, you don’t want your wings. If you don’t want your wings, you need to avoid finding your mate, and if you don’t want to find your mate, you have to quarantine yourself.

The logic is sound, heartbreaking, but sound. There is no telling who your mate could be, and if you don’t want to risk falling in love with the mailman or the guy who came to read your gas meter, the only other option is to leave civilization.  

When she could take it no more, Claudia had hiked across several states. Eventually, she made it to California and met a young deputy in the first gas station she could find. She fought it as hard as she could, but inevitably, she walked right into love. John bought her a bottle of water and gave her a ride into town where he offered his own shower and couch, and Claudia had been powerless to resist.

 _It was as fast as lightning_ , she wrote, finally switching to pen when she had rejoined society. _The worst part was how good it felt. I knew it would be my undoing, but I was powerless against him, against fate. I hated him for making me love him. But not enough. I didn’t hate him enough. It was impossible to hate John. It was impossible to not want his child. It was impossible to not want everything._

John blames himself; Peter understands that. Beyond understanding, he feels the same way. If John had never existed, none of this would have ever happened. Claudia could have been free. If she’d never met John, never fallen in love and had a child, she wouldn’t have had to die. But hadn’t she made a choice as well? Hadn’t she been the one to isolate herself and keep this knowledge from her husband and son?  

The thoughts circle in Peter’s head as he tries to work out his feelings.  Had he done this?  Had he caused Stiles all of this pain and suffering?  If they’d never met, would Stiles have grown up to be a normal teenager?  To go to college, and have children, and live a normal life?  If Peter left now, would all of this go away?  That’s one possibility that Claudia hadn’t considered.  She would never leave John, especially not after she’d had a child with him.  But she’d also never told John the truth.  He’d never had the option.  

Peter has the option.  But could he take it?  He glances at his phone and sees that it’s 1 p.m.  Stiles can wait.  He has to speak to the sheriff.  If anyone can possibly tell him what to do, it’s going to be John Stilinski.

 

* * *

 

Peter drives to the station in a daze, Claudia’s notebook sliding around on his passenger seat.  His eyes flick to it occasionally, accusingly, like it’s the source of all of his problems.  Giving the receptionist a stunning Hale smile, he struts through the station to the sheriff’s office, knocking once on the door before opening it.  

John looks up as Peter steps in and closes the door behind him, holding out the notebook for him to take.  He sighs, but takes the book and puts it down on his desk, a heavy palm covering it, pressing it into the tabletop like he wants to bury it and never look at it again.

“Why did you tell me to come find you?” he asks, hoping the sheriff isn’t going to spring more bad news on him.

“I thought it’d be obvious to you.”

Peter tilts his head, mouth turned down at the corners as he considers the man behind the desk.  

“I knew you were going to need a good talking to.”

Peter’s frown deepens.

“A lecture?  A dressing down?  At the very least a shovel speech, though I think that’s probably kind of redundant at this point.”  John’s lips are twisted like he’s almost enjoying this, which makes Peter both suspicious and nervous.  “It’s all a bit of a shock, isn’t it?  I thought you might try to do something stupid.”

Peter stares.

“Oh, you think you’re so smart.  A real genius, don’t you?  Above it all… but when it comes to matters of the heart, you’re just like the rest of us.  Don’t you ever forget that,” John says, eyebrows raised like he’s waiting for an argument.  

Peter can’t help but continue to stare.  This is not at all what he thought this conversation would be like, and he’s more than a little confused.  He bites his lip but says nothing.

“Well?” John asks, leaving the conversation open for Peter to take the reins.  His lips twist again, and Peter is starting to fear that look, not sure at all what John’s intentions are.

A minute passes and Peter says nothing, just stares at the sheriff’s hand pressing down on the notebook, his wedding ring still sitting on his finger, even after all this time.  

“Don’t even think about blaming yourself,” he says eventually, staring Peter down with the weight only a widower can.  “It’s an idiotic thing to do, and as we’ve already established, you’re a genius, right?”

“You can’t honestly tell me that you don’t blame yourself too,” Peter says, crossing his arms over his chest, more than a little offended.

“That’s not the point.  We’re talking about you here.”

“Well let’s talk about you then,” Peter argues, puffing himself up against the sheriff’s scrutiny.  “If you had known everything back then.  If she’d told you everything.  Would you have done anything differently?”

“Of course I would have done things differently, what kind of question is that?” John asks indignantly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his own arms.  “I could have helped her.  I could have saved her!” he says a bit louder, slamming his hand down on the notebook in frustration.

“You wouldn’t have been angry?  Upset?  You were lied to.”

“I was lied to for years.  You’ve been lied to for a few days.  It’s not nearly the same thing.”

“Well, I imagine it feels the same,” Peter counters, exhaling heavily.

“He needed some time to figure it out.  Then he came clean.  You have no reason to be upset about this.  Not now.”

“No reason?  I did this to him!” Peter shouts, throwing his hands up in the air.

John barely blinks, just waits him out, lets him catch his breath without interrupting.  When his body slumps and his head is hung between his knees, John finally speaks.  “You didn’t do anything to him.  There’s nothing you could have done.”

“I could have left,” Peter says quietly, eyes on the floor.

“No, you couldn’t have,” John says, firm and sure.  “You couldn’t have left him any more than I could have left Claudia.  Nothing could keep you away.”

“How do you know that?  I could leave right now.  Walk away and never come back.”

“You won’t.”

“I could.”

“Sure,” John allows, spinning his wedding ring around on his finger.  “Sure… you _could_.  But you won’t.”

“How can you be sure?   _I’m_ not even sure,” Peter admits, raising his eyes to check John’s expression.

“Because I’ve seen you with him.  You’d die for my kid.  Endure anything.  I’ve seen you at it already,” he says with a sigh.  “You can call it pack all you want, but I’ve never seen Scott or Derek do anything for anyone like what you’ve done for him.  You’d walk through fire again, wouldn’t you?”  Peter stays noticeably silent.  He can’t find it in himself to argue.  “If you didn’t love him, I’d have shot you full of wolfsbane bullets for laying a hand on him.”

“Thanks for showing restraint,” Peter says, eyebrows furrowed.  He hadn’t noticed how demonstrative he’d been, but the sheriff had seen it all.  

“You’re not a gentle man, Peter,” John says.  

Peter swallows.  He should have known that Stiles’ father would be so observant.  The man is a detective for a reason, but Peter had written him off as soon as heard his drunk voice over the phone when he’d called for help.  He won’t make that mistake again.

“But he does something to you.  Doesn’t he?”

The words hang in the air so long Peter thinks he can almost see them there, mocking him.  Here is a man who knows exactly what he’s going through, who is only human to his werewolf, who had even less strength to summon against the odds when his mate was hurting.  John sees right through him, to the very core of the problem.  

Stiles.  It’s always going to be about Stiles, no matter how Peter tries to fight it.

“It hits you like a ton of bricks, doesn’t it?” John says, filling in where Peter’s words have failed him.  “I couldn’t take my eyes off her.  Thought it was love at first sight, how we fell into each other so fast.  It seems silly now though.  Clearly, there were greater powers at work.  Stiles… he’s just like his mother, isn’t he?  Has you wrapped around his little finger.  You’re not as tough as you thought you were, are you?”

“That’s not the issue,” Peter says, eyebrows scrunching up in uncharacteristic worry.  

“What is it then?  Afraid your days of freedom are over?  Because I can already tell you that it’s too late on that front,” John says, chuckling darkly.  “You’re his mate, there’s no getting out of it now.”

Peter ponders this for a minute.  Does he even want out of it?  Is that really what his problem is?  

“I’m not going to be good for him,” Peter admits, lips twisted in self-disgust.  “I can’t be anyone’s mate.”

“You really don’t have a choice,” John says simply, leaning forward with his palms on his desk, surveying Peter carefully.  

“What if I want one?” he whispers, mouth pressed to his folded hands, expression grim.  “What would you say then?”

“I’d tell you to suck it up and do your best.  We’re not expecting miracles, but you’re not leaving him.  I know it and you know it, so you can forget about that right now.”

“I’ll use him… I can’t be trusted with this,” Peter says, finally voicing his biggest fears.  “And worse than that, I’ll like it.  And I’ll convince him that he likes it too.  I’ll make him into a monster… just like me.”

“You really think highly of yourself, don’t you?” John says, laughing out loud now as he leans back in his chair.  “You’re not the biggest bad out there.  You know you’re dealing with the Gods here, right?  You think Aphrodite and Zeus are afraid of a little werewolf?  Blue eyes or not, you’re nothing to them.  There are real monsters out there—titans.  Stiles is going to need you to protect him, not work against him.  Your Alpha nephew is small potatoes when Cronos’ kids are wreaking havoc all over Beacon Hills.”

“Are you bullshitting?  Or does your wife have any more diaries I should know about?” Peter asks, tapping an irritated finger against Claudia’s notebook.  

“You know what’s fun about this?” John asks, eyes sparkling in that mischievous way he usually associates with Stiles and reckless decisions.  “You have no idea what the answer to that question is.”

Peter leans back in his chair, pressing his mouth against his clasped hands.  He stares at the sheriff, who smiles under the scrutiny.  It’s the same devious and delighted expression his son usually has when he’s plotting something.  The man has no tells.  His heartbeat is steady, his scent is even and inscrutable, and his facial expression is relaxed if not pleased.  Peter can’t believe it.  He’s been outwitted by his boyfriend’s father.

“Are you willing to take that chance?” John asks, putting the ball squarely in his court.  

Peter doesn’t answer.  John’s smile grows.  He knows that Peter knows he’s been backed into a corner.  There’s no way he can deny his feelings.

“You’d die for him,” John says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  “But you’d much rather kill for him, am I right?”

Peter wisely stays silent yet again.  

John laughs yet again.  Peter’s getting a little sick of the sound.  It feels like defeat.  He’s pretty sure he’d rather get punched in the face than be made to feel like this, somewhere between inferior and insecure.  Whatever it is, it’s intolerable.  

“Fine, yes,” Peter says angrily.  He lets out a heavy breath through his nose to offset the growl that he feels growing in his chest.  “I’d die for him.  Is that what you want to hear?  Or are you looking for a love confession?  Because you’ll be waiting for a very long time.”

“Save the love confessions for my son,” John says, still looking amused.  “I’m much more interested in hearing about how you plan on protecting him from whatever supernatural or immortal creatures start coming after him.  I’m sure those wings came equipped with some sort of homing beacon.”

“I’ll protect him just fine.  From whatever threatens his health and happiness,” Peter pauses dramatically, never one to pass up an opportunity for theatrics.  “Including you.”

“I’m not going to hurt him—”

“—You already have.”

Peter stands, jaw set firm as he leans over the sheriff’s desk and looms.  “You want me to man up?  You think I’m the one who can break his heart?  You’re wrong.”

“It’s his mother that broke this family, not me.”

“She died for him, for both of you, to keep you safe.  All you’ve managed to do is drink yourself into a hole and drag your son down with you.”

“You’re out of line.  I think you need to take a step back,” John says, standing from his desk.  He puts his hands on his hips, and Peter has to mentally stop himself for letting his eyes flick to the man’s gun holster.  It may not happen very often, but this time Peter knows he’s in the right and refuses to back down.

“Your son loves you,” Peter says, trying to think of Stiles and not his own self-righteous anger.  “Don’t make him bury you too.  Get your fucking act together and be a parent.”

John has the grace to look away, and Peter forces himself not to smirk in triumph.  

“He’s got enough problems.  I don’t plan on being one of them,” Peter says, leaning back off the desk to give the sheriff room to collect himself.  “You shouldn’t either.”

It takes a minute of fraught eye contact before John nods once, jaw tight.  He sits down heavily in his desk chair and hangs his head in his hands, defeated.

“Look,” Peter says, feeling the guilt creep in.  He can almost imagine the look of disappointment on Stiles’ face if he ever found out how cruel the barbs he just threw at his father were.  “It won’t be easy, but if Stiles is brave enough to jump off a cliff and learn to fly, you can swallow your pride and go to a few AA meetings, right?”

“Stiles did _what_?” John asks with a wince.  

“You really don’t want to know,” Peter says, swallowing down a laugh.  “It was a bit of a rough landing, but the good news is that he can fly now.”

“Promise me you patched him up afterward,” John groans, face falling even more as he imagines what injuries his son endured.

“Something like that,” Peter says with a smirk.  

 

* * *

 

It isn’t terribly hard to find Stiles.  His instincts tell him to check the preserve and his nose leads him straight to the edge of the cliff where he finds Stiles sitting atop the same large black rock.  “I spoke to your father,” Peter leads with, lips twisting as he looks Stiles over appreciatively.  He’s leaning back on his palms, giving Peter a good view of his well-corded forearms and the curve of his toned abdomen.  

“How’d that go?” Stiles asks, amused, but not bothering to open his eyes or stop sunning his face.  

“About as well as you’d expect.”

“How do you know what I’d expect?” Stiles asks, nose twitching as he threatens to laugh.  “You bang a dude once and suddenly you’re soulmates.  What kind of bullshit is that?”

“Fate, apparently,” Peter says, laughing outright.  He leans forward and pulls Stiles in for a kiss, marveling at the fact that it’s something he can do now, that it’s something _they_ do.  Stiles and he are a _they_ now; an _us_.  The enormity of it makes Peter want to laugh even harder.  

“Are you going to be okay with this?” Stiles asks, pulling back ever so slightly to look at Peter’s expression.  “With me?”

“I get a flying boyfriend who levies vengeance for a living and I get to have sex with someone twenty years younger than me for the rest of my life?  You’re not going to hear me complaining,” Peter says reaching for Stiles’ hips and pulling him in.  He slots their hips together and hears Stiles groan when his dick, already hard in his jeans, comes into contact with Peter’s thigh.   

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘mate,’” Stiles points out, leaning in to nip at Peter’s jaw and trail kisses down his throat.  

“That sounds so trite,” Peter complains, arching into Stiles’ mouth, thinking about what else he could use it for.  “Can’t we come up with a better word?”

“Partner?” Stiles suggests, taking a breath.  “It seems a bit early to start throwing the word husband around, but I’m open to discussing it after I finish college.”

“How about consort?” Peter asks, swallowing down a moan when Stiles’ mouth heads for his collarbone.  

Stiles makes a sound of disagreement against his skin and Peter wracks his brain for more vocabulary as he quickly loses his mental faculties to Stiles’ questing mouth.  

“Accomplice?  Companion?”

“We could go with ‘companion’ for now.  It’s got a Doctor Who vibe,” Stiles points out, long fingers reaching for Peter’s belt buckle.  

“How about we take this party home?” Peter suggests, stilling Stiles’ hands.  

“Do we have to?  No one’s around!”

“Need I remind you that you have massive wings that tend to appear when you’re aroused?” Peter teases, running his tongue up Stiles’ throat, adding a little incentive.  

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Stiles says, licking his lips and rubbing them together, gathering his thoughts.  “When you say home… are you asking me to move in with you?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” Peter says, letting his hands roam upward under Stiles’ shirt, squeezing his waist and stealing his breath.  “Your father might not be too happy, but it’s hardly his business anymore.  You’re a legal adult.”

“What did he say to you?” Stiles asks, narrowing his eyes.

“We had a lovely chat.  He gave me the shovel speech, complete with the threat of wolfsbane poisoning and I told him I promised not to use you for world domination if he agreed to go to Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“You didn’t!” Stiles groans, halfway between exasperated and impressed.  

“I absolutely did.  It’s not safe for you in that house, sweetheart—”

“—Unn, I love it when you call me that—”

“—and if you need a place to stay for the rest of the summer, I’m happy to accommodate you.”

“Is that what you’re calling it these days?  Accommodating me?” Stiles asks, grinning.  “How about you accommodate me right here, right now?”

“I’d rather have a bed and some privacy,” Peter says, leaning in to nibble at Stiles’ earlobe.  “I’m not sharing you.”

“Umm…” Stiles says, losing his train of thought as Peter’s mouth moves lower and his hands reach up to brush thumbs over his nipples.  “Good, yes… that sounds good.  Let’s do that.”

Peter bundles Stiles into his car, politely declining a tandem flight yet again.  If he’s being honest with himself, Stiles being in charge of keeping them in the air, with the way he drives… the thought makes Peter nauseous.  

“Are you sure this is going to be okay?” Stiles asks, eyeing Peter warily on the ride back to the apartment.  “You don’t look entirely pleased.”

“I’m perfectly pleased,” Peter assures him, taking Stiles’ hand in his own and squeezing it.  “I’m just taking a moment to imagine all the things I’m going to do to you.”

“Not that I’m not looking forward to the sex,” Stiles says, staring at their joined hands.  “But it is more than that, right?  I mean… you get that I’m it for you.  You’re it for me.  We’re mates.  This is all that you get,” he says, gesturing to himself with his free hand.  

“You’re not a consolation prize.  I’m not disappointed, far from it,” Peter says, making a one handed turn with ease.  “If you need reassurances, I’ll make them, in the bedroom, several times over.”

“Alright,” Stiles says, a smile stretching across his face when he sees Peter’s own smug look.  “You’re not going to leave then?” he asks, unable to stop himself from checking one last time.  

“Not leaving,” Peter says, firm and sure.  “Someone has to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.  You’re too selfless to do this whole justice gig without me and you know it.”

“You love me,” Stiles says, poking Peter in the side.

“Maybe not for long if you keep that up.”

“You love me,” he says again, smile growing wide.

“Against my better judgment, yes,” Peter says with a sarcastic sigh.  

“I love you, too,” Stiles says, lunging across the center console to press a quick kiss against Peter’s cheek as they pull into his parking spot.  

“And I know just how you can show me,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows as he traces Stiles’ bottom lip with his thumb.  “Interested?”

“Fuck yes,” Stiles agrees, nearly choking himself in an effort to unbuckle his seatbelt and rush to the door.  

“On your knees then,” Peter orders as soon as they’re inside.  He kicks off his shoes and strides confidently to the bedroom, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and gesturing to the floor.  

Stiles goes immediately, mouth already half open.  To Peter, it’s like a dream.  “You know,” he says, cupping the back of Stiles’ head and threading his fingers through his hair.  “I said I wouldn’t use you for world domination, but I never said anything about Beacon Hills… or my own personal endeavors for that matter.”

Stiles licks his lips and raises his hands, waiting for a brief nod from Peter before unbuckling his belt and opening his pants.  

“You’re going to do exactly as I say, sweetheart,” Peter says, cupping the man’s cheek.  “And if you’re very good, I’ll let you come.  How does that sound?”

At a loss for words, Stiles swallows dryly and nods several times.  

“You’re so good for me, darling,” Peter coos, letting Stiles pull down his underwear and reveal his cock.  “How could anyone be disappointed to have you all to themselves?  You’re gorgeous and powerful and so very eager—everything I could ever want.”

Stiles leans in, mouth open until he’s just barely an inch away from the tip of Peter’s cock, breathing heavily.  He looks up through his long lashes and licks his lips.  Unable to wait any longer, Peter presses against the back of his neck until he’s swallowed down.  

It takes all of his effort to not ram himself down Stiles’ throat.  Peter tightens his fingers in the back of Stiles’ hair, biting down on his lip to keep himself from choking the man.  Stiles bobs his head rapidly, going down far easier than Peter would expect for someone’s first time.  In an effort to keep himself from falling over the edge too early, Peter starts talking.

“I can smell how hard you are from here, you know?” he hisses, voice pitched low.  Stiles swallows around him, leaning even further forward.  Seeing the gesture for what it is, Peter moves his right leg forward until his calf is pressed between Stiles’ legs.  “Go on then,” he offers, nudging his socked foot under Stiles’ balls.  “Take what you need.”

Stiles moans around him, forcing Peter to squeeze his eyes shut and swallow hard.  The instant Stiles rolls his hips against Peter’s leg, his wings spring out from his back, tearing his shirt to shreds.  The sound of the fabric ripping shocks Peter into thrusting his hips forward, choking Stiles, who pulls off to hack and cough, eyes wet with unshed tears.  

“Oh god, look at you,” Peter coos, petting the hair on the back of his head as he catches his breath.  “What have I done to deserve all this,” he says bringing his hand around to cup Stiles’ cheek as his eyes dart over every inch of Stiles’ wings.  

Peter’s thumbs come up to wipe under Stiles’ eyes.  He stares for a moment at his mate, panting, mouth wet and open, waiting to take him again.  Peter can’t help but smile quietly to himself as Stiles ducks his head and swallows him down, feathers quivering in excitement.  

“You know something?” he says, voice rumbling in his chest as Stiles swirls his tongue just so.  “Derek and the others?  They’ve got nothing on us now.  We’re our own pack, aren’t we?  You and me and your father.”

Stiles hums deep in his throat in agreement, redoubling his efforts.  His hips stutter where he’s been rubbing steadily against Peter’s leg.  Peter takes the opportunity to brush the back of his hand against the inside curve of Stiles’ wing.  The feathers flutter against his skin as gentle as a kiss and his smirk grows as Stiles sucks in a breath.  The sound of it makes Peter’s dick throb sharply, all wet heat and suction around him.  

“There’s something else too,” Peter adds, licking his lips as heat pools in his stomach.  “I don’t mean to brag,” he start, and feels Stiles chuckle, vibrations in his throat making Peter’s breath catch.  “Okay maybe I do,” he says, laughing breathlessly.  “But I’m fairly sure that a mated pair outrank even an Alpha.”  

Peter groans heavily as Stiles swallows, sucking him deep into his throat and holding him there.  His hands go up to grip tightly in Stiles’ hair, unable to keep from burying himself deep inside.  Eager to chase his pleasure along with Stiles, Peter raises his hand and gently takes one of Stiles’ feathers between his thumb and forefinger.  

Stiles moans again, almost pitifully.  Peter hitches his hips even further inside, choking Stiles in his pleasure.  He rubs his fingers together in a circle, bristling the barbs once, twice, and then a third time.  Stiles comes on the spot, throat clenching down tight against the head of Peter’s cock, which immediately pulses harshly against his sore palate.  He struggles to swallow.  Peter pulls back, half-hard cock giving a few last pulses to drip come onto his bottom lip.  

Stiles smiles broadly, even as he coughs into his fist.  He licks his lips, eyes bright as he swallows one last time.  “First step Beacon Hills,” he says, voice rough as sandpaper, “next step world domination.”

Peter laughs, rubbing his thumb across Stiles’ damp lower lip, sliding it into his mouth when Stiles’ lips open in invitation.  Unable to help himself, Peter nudges his toes even further under Stiles balls, putting the slightest bit of pressure on his hole.  Stiles hisses, oversensitive.  Peter inhales deeply and drowns in the scent of Stiles’ come drying in his boxers.  Releasing his thumb, Stiles closes his eyes and tilts his head back, moaning wantonly.  

Peter stares at the cords of his throat bobbing and throbbing with his quickened pulse and wonders how he ever got so lucky.  There’s no one he’d rather dominate the world with than the young fury whose wings shiver and shake with every touch.

When they’re both sated and resting, Peter running his fingers down Stiles’ arm, clearly ramping up for round two, Stiles shoots up in bed, heartbeat racing.  

“Condoms,” he says out of nowhere, point completely lost to Peter.  “I swear to God Peter, condoms for days.  Double, no triple bag that thing because I am not risking a child’s life on some supernatural bullshit that will knock one of us up.”

“What are you talking about?  I can’t get you pregnant,” Peter argues, sitting up as well.  

“I don’t care if you don’t think it’s possible, I’m not fucking you without a condom.  In fact, let’s get vasectomies.  You go first, you’re older.“  
  
“What does age have to do with it?” Peter asks, indignant.  
  
“You’ve had more time with your sperm than I have!” Stiles shouts, leaping out of bed to paw frantically through Peter’s bedside table.  “And don’t try to tell me that you can smell the difference,” he says, flinging a box of Trojans in Peter’s direction.  “I promise you it will feel exactly the same.”  

Peter huffs and rolls his eyes, but Stiles will not be moved.  He rips the box open and tears a condom off the roll, flinging it at Peter’s already present erection.  

“Just do it or I’m going to withhold sex,” he says, hands on his hips.  Peter tries not to laugh, knowing the man is perfectly serious but having trouble reconciling the attitude with the way his dick is bouncing every time he moves.  Hands on his hips, Stiles stands tall, chest out.  “Who do you think will break first?  Me or you?”

Peter lets out a heavy sigh and flops down on the mattress on his back.  Shaking his head at his mate’s antics, he reaches for the condom.


	10. Epilogue

Weeks pass much the same way.  Stiles all but moves into Peter’s apartment.  The sheriff stops by for dinner every Thursday on the way to his meetings.  When he sheepishly places his thirty-day chip on Peter’s dining room table, they all go for ice cream.  John barely flinches when Stiles reaches for Peter’s hand and licks a stripe up his vanilla cone, eyes shining deviously.  

The sex continues to be varied and surprising.  Stiles’ feathers never lose their sensitivity.  Peter swears that if he carries on the same way soon all he’ll have to do is look at Stiles’ wings sideways before he comes on the spot.  

It’s only three weeks before Stiles is due to start classes at Stanford, and Peter has still not found anywhere suitable for them to live.  “This one is three bedrooms!  It’s too big!” Stiles calls from his spot on the couch where he’s tapping discontentedly at Peter’s laptop.  

“I wanted a bigger master,” Peter calls back from the kitchen where he is fixing dinner.  “And a separate soaking tub!  In case we need the space next time you get injured.”

“Don’t even bother lying,” Stiles says, clicking few the remaining open tabs.  “You just want more space to spread me out across your bed.”

“Is that a complaint I hear?”

“No, no complaints,” Stiles says chuckling.  “I’m just exposing your true motives.”

“My motives are pure and genuine,” Peter says, sauntering into the room with a dishtowel across one shoulder.  “I know how difficult your classes will be and I’m going to need plenty of space to work the kinks out of your aching body.”

“Oh yeah, that sounds so pure,” Stiles says, arching up for a kiss.  Peter leans down obligingly, peeking at the computer and clicking on the townhouse he prefers.  

“I do hope you like this one,” he says, heading back to the kitchen.  “Because I’ve already put an offer in.”

“It’s gigantic!” Stiles crows, clicking through the photos and checking the square footage.

“Need I remind you of your wingspan?” Peter calls from the kitchen.

“No, I guess not,” Stiles says, peering over his shoulder at his own back, daring them to appear.  

The couch begins to vibrate and Stiles scrambles for a moment, patting the cushions and tossing the blanket off his lap until he finds his phone.  “Hello?”  He listens for a minute, unable to get any words in himself.  “We’ll be right there.  Peter?” he calls, springing off the couch and running to the door to throw on his shoes.  “Shut the stove off, we’ve got to run.”

“What is it?” he asks, drying his hands on the towel and tossing it onto the counter before following Stiles out the door.  

“Harpies,” he says gravely, dashing down the hall, knowing Peter will be following close behind.  “Boyd and Erica have already been hurt.  They need all the help they can get.”

“Oh, now they need our help?” Peter asks, jumping into his car and following Stiles’ directions as he rattles them off.  “What have they been doing for the last two months?  I haven’t heard from Derek for so long he could be dead for all I know.”

“I guess they had it covered until now.”

“We’ll tell them this is the last time.  I’m not going to be at their beck and call whenever they’re out of other options, and neither will you.  You’re off to school soon anyway.  They’ll have to get used to living life without you.”

“Yes, dear,” Stiles says, laughing even as he taps his foot anxiously on the floor of the car.

“And we don’t tell them about your wings,” Peter adds, voice clipped and edging toward angry.  “They don’t get to have that part of you.”

“Only you, huh?” Stiles asks, lips twisting up into a smirk.

“Every inch of you is mine,” Peter says, gruff and low, pleased with himself when he can almost feel a shiver go up Stiles’ spine.

“Save it for later, big bad,” Stiles jokes, nearly flinging himself out of the car when Peter parks it at the edge of the preserve.  “We’ve got work to do,” he says, pulling his baseball bat out of the trunk and slamming it shut behind him.  

It’s actually worse than Derek made it out to be.  By the time they fling themselves into the fray Isaac is bleeding profusely from slash wounds across his chest.  Scott is applying pressure but he can’t pull away without leaving him for dead.  The harpies’ claws seem to be imbibed with something akin to wolfsbane, as the rest of the wolves aren’t faring much better.  Erica has a broken ankle that isn’t mending as it should and Boyd is bleeding from the throat, his head pillowed in her lap, unconscious.  Allison is the only one that appears to be making any difference, shooting arrow after arrow into the sky and dodging attacks left and right.

Jackson has his back to Lydia, arms out as he blocks her from swooping attacks.  Derek is locked in battle with two other fierce looking winged creatures, one clawing its way up his back, rending the skin.  It’s only by virtue of him being an Alpha that he hasn’t been taken out already as well.  

Peter shifts immediately, his eyes glowing that electric blue that makes Stiles’ mouth go dry.  He leaps forward to pull the harpy off of Derek’s back while Stiles heads for Jackson, the bat’s extended reach keeping the airborne beast at bay.  By bounding up and off a high tree branch, Jackson manages to take one out, ripping its head clean off with claws and teeth.  Finally free to run, Lydia rushes off to check on Isaac.  

Another two harpies divebomb Jackson and no matter how she tries, Allison can’t manage to hit the other three that are circling overhead like vultures, swooping down every so often to swipe at whoever is nearest.  Stiles slams his bat into the harpy that has its claws dug into Peter’s arm and manages to knock it hard enough that Peter can nearly rip it in half with his claws.  

“Feels a little silly using that bat now, doesn’t it?” Peter calls, laughing heartily, full of adrenaline.  

“I just helped you kill one off with it and you’re nagging me?” Stiles calls back, twirling his bat into the air only to duck a moment later as a harpy swoops down onto his head.  “Some boyfriend you are,” he mutters, knowing only Peter will be paying any attention.  

Peter somehow finds the time to stick out his tongue at Stiles before dashing off, leaping into the air and taking down a harpy that was heading for Allison.  He follows it down to the ground, breaking a wing clean off before going back to help Derek with the trio of harpies that are hanging off each of his arms and his neck, claws dug in deep.

He’s only made it a few steps toward the fight before he’s taken off guard, claws slicing into his shoulders and wrenching him roughly until he leaves the ground entirely.  

“Peter!” Stiles all but screams, racing after him but not able to catch up on foot.  “I’m coming!” he calls, turning back quickly to thrust his bat into Lydia’s hand and spread his wings without a second thought.  He doesn’t hear the gasps or calls of his name, blood pulsing in his ears as he tenses every muscle in his body.

Before he’s made a conscious decision to do so, he’s in the air, flapping frantically as he struggles to keep Peter and the harpy in his sights.  The flight pattern is erratic though, and Stiles has only just learned how to control himself.  Stiles can feel Peter slipping further and further away, his figure getting smaller as it flies off into the distance.  

Stiles puts on a burst of speed but barely makes any headway.  His heart skips a beat as he sees the harpy turn and fly back toward him, but a weight falls like lead into his stomach when he realizes it’s no longer carrying Peter.  

He’s plummeting toward the ground, falling at too great of a speed.  The harpy dives for him, but he edges out of the way by barely an inch.  He stretches his arms out frantically like the extra reach will be all he needs to get Peter into his grasp, but it’s no use.  He’s falling too fast and Stiles is losing faith that he’ll be able to reach him before he hits the ground.  

“Stiles!” he hears Peter scream, putting on a braver air than Stiles would ever be able to manage if their positions were reversed.  

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Stiles breathes, flapping as hard as he possibly can and changing the angle of his body, whatever he can think of to get that bit more speed.  “Coming!” he screams back, wondering how far of a way it is down if they can manage to carry on a conversation mid-fall.  

Peter is beside himself.  He’s squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for impact, under no illusion that he will make it out of this fight alive.  He does his best to focus on the wind on his face, imagining Stiles’ arms around him, taking him on a joy ride over the canopy of the forest, the sun beating down on his skin, warming him through and through.  To die in the arms of his mate, there’s nothing more a wolf could ask for in this life.  

He can almost feel it, the swooping beat of air in his hair as Stiles’ wings flap around him, the taut arm muscles clenched around his back, squeezing him tight.  “Got you,” Peter hears whispered in his ears, those two perfect words like a marriage proposal for all the weight they hold.  “It’s okay, you can open your eyes.  I’ve got you,” Stiles says again, and Peter’s eyes shoot open only to shut again immediately against the harsh light of the setting sun.  

When he opens them again, he sees Stiles’ chin pointed upward over his head as he turns back toward the cliff’s edge.  Peter can’t see where they’re going, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the mole near the corner of Stiles’ mouth, catching his breath.  

“Is now a bad time to tell you that I’m afraid of heights?” he mutters, tightening his grip around Stiles’ neck and burying his face in the man’s warmth.  

“You picked the wrong mate then,” Stiles says, eyes on the sky.  

“Didn’t pick you,” Peter says, voice thick as he struggles with words.  He can feel how high up they are, how tight Stiles’ muscles are, keeping them wrapped together, keeping them airborne.  “You just fell into me sideways.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Stiles agrees, throat bobbing as he laughs.  “What are you so afraid of anyway?”

“A fall like this?” Peter says, chancing a peek at the ground before immediately shutting his eyes again.  “It’s one of the few things that could kill a wolf.  All those shattered bones and organs rupturing on impact?  I wouldn’t have time to heal any of it.”

“It’s a good thing you have me then,” Stiles says, flapping in place as he eases them down to the ground.  The group is on them in an instant, but Peter can’t take his hands off of Stiles, his legs like jelly.

“Very good,” he admits, burying his face in Stiles’ neck again, pretending no one else in the world exists.  

“I need you too, you know,” Stiles says softly, running his nose against Peter’s stubbly cheek.  “All that sex has been worth it.  Do you have any idea how hard I had to clench my ass to keep us both from plummeting to our deaths?”

This shocks a laugh out of Peter, who uses it to cover the sob that wants to break out of his chest.  They were so close.  He could feel how very close he nearly came to being a red stain on the canyon floor.  

“I knew you could do it,” Peter says, steadying himself, fingers still clenched into Stiles’ forearms, knuckles white.  

“Buck up,” Stiles teases, raising Peter’s chin with his pointer finger.  “You weren’t so concerned when it was me falling from great heights, you fucking hypocrite.”

“You have wings, it’s completely different,” Peter protests, swallowing down hard on the fear that threatened to overwhelm him.  Stiles is still here.  He’s still alive.  They both are.  He’s real and solid and warm in his arms.  All of the sudden he’s overwhelmed with the base need to devour his mate.  Without a second thought to their present company, Peter surges forward, capturing Stiles’ mouth in a filthy, fervent kiss.  

Stiles moans into his mouth, accepting his tongue and biting down on his upper lip, putting into motion the sharp and scared emotions running through his body.  They kiss for long minutes, hands finding Peter’s waist, fingers winding into Stiles’ hair, cementing them together with the weight of finally being on solid ground.  

“I knew you could do it,” Peter says finally, lips brushing against Stiles’ mouth with every word.  “You’re so strong.  And I would have caught you if you fell.  I’ll always catch you,” he mutters, placing more short, frantic kisses all over Stiles’ face, ending with his mouth.  

“Only if you’re not too busy getting a boner whenever you see my wings,” Stiles all but giggles into Peter’s ear, fear making way for the elation in his heart after coming through yet another scrape alive.  

“Can you blame me?” Peter teases, nipping at Stiles’ earlobe and shoving a thigh between Stiles’ legs, locking them together.  “You’re so sexy when you fly like that.  I could fuck you on the ground right here and now.”

“Didn’t you say something about not liking an audience?” Stiles asks, pulling his face away from Peter’s when Derek clears his throat.  Allison is busy walking around the pile of bodies on the ground, jabbing a broken arrow into their skulls one at a time, making sure they’re all dead, but the rest of them are standing in a group, ogling the pair in front of them.    

“What the fuck is this?” Scott asks, nearly screaming at them.  “Get off of him, you pervert!”

“No,” Peter says simply.

“He’s not a pervert,” Stiles counters, clutching Peter tighter.  He licks his lips unconsciously as Peter takes that opportunity to suck a love bite into his neck.   

“More importantly, since when do you have wings?” Lydia asks, lending one shoulder to Isaac who is just barely standing.  

“Short version?” Stiles asks, poking Peter in the ribs until he relents.  “I’m a fury, Peter is my mate.  Yes, my dad knows, and yes, he’s okay with it.”

“A fury?” someone asks.

“Your mate?” Derek scoffs, folding his arms across his chest.  

“Yes, his mate,” Peter confirms, all too gleeful.

“I can’t believe you can fly,” Scott says, reaching a hand forward to touch one of Stiles’ primary feathers.

“No!” he and Peter say simultaneously, leaping back until Stiles’ wings are out of reach.  

“You can’t touch them,” Stiles says, eyes narrowed in Scott’s direction.  “No one can touch them.”

Unthinkingly, Peter grasps Stiles’ hand and squeezes, smiling fondly knowing that he’ll always be allowed to touch Stiles’ most intimate places.  

“Mates?  Does that mean you’re like married or something?” Erica asks, eyes still darting between the two and everywhere they are pressed together.  

“Not yet, but we could be,” Stiles says, allowing Peter to bury himself in his neck once more.  Peter inhales deeply, steadying himself as he lets Stiles take all the fire.  “He’s moving to Stanford with me in a few weeks, and we’ll be together forever.  So…”

“Forever?!” Scott screams again, eyes bugging out of his head.

“So we might as well be married,” Stiles concludes, smiling when he gets a sharp nip from Peter on the collarbone for the affirmation.  

“Can I?” Scott asks, again reaching out to grab for Stiles’ feathers.

“I said no, Scott!” Stiles screams again, having trouble hiding his smirk when Peter steps between them, blocking him from Scott’s reach.  

“No one touches them but me,” Peter says.  “And only when Stiles allows it.”

“Do they hurt or something?” Scott asks, trying to make sense of it all.

“Or something,” Peter murmurs, pulling a laugh out of Lydia who has been following their reactions carefully.

“They’re private and I’m not a fucking pet,” Stiles snaps from behind Peter’s shoulder, crossing his arms as well.  “I’m not going to explain why, you’re just going to have to live with it.”

“He comes pretty much immediately if you touch them,” Peter says proudly, smiling wide when Scott’s mouth drops open in shock.

“Peter!” Stiles screams, covering his eyes with one hand as he groans in embarrassment.

“Or at least he does when I touch them,” Peter adds, smug.  “But I’d rather no one else test the theory.”

“You’re really mated?” Derek asks, changing the subject with all the subtlety of an anvil.  

“Yes, we are,” Peter says proudly, squaring his shoulders to look at Derek directly.  “And you remember what your mother told you about mated pairs?”

“I remember,” Derek says softly, eyes darting between the two of him like he’s trying not to picture it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jackson asks, clearly wondering if it affects him at all.  

“It means there’s a new pack in town,” Stiles says, wrapping his arms around Peter’s neck from behind, all too pleased with himself when Peter reaches back to grab him by the hip and pull him in close.  

“Care to challenge me to a duel, nephew?” Peter says, eyes sparkling in amusement.


End file.
